yC-NRLF 


B    3    im    3M^ 


A/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

Education 

GIFT  OF 


Dr.  Gordon  E,  Hein 


/^v^. 


/ 


(V^ 

/'l^!' 

'^, 

^ '  • ' 'J^J 

THEN    I    CLAIM    THH    HAND    OF    PACinCA." 

Page  159 


BIMBI 


STORIES    FOR    CHILDREN. 


BY 

LOUISA   DE   LA   RAME. 

•      (buiDA.) 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

EDMUND   H.  GARRETT. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY. 
1893. 


GIFT 


Copyright,  1892, 

BV 

J.  B.  LippiNCOTT  Company. 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Phiiadeiphia. 


00l!5"TEKTS. 


FAOE 

The  Nt*RNBERQ  Stove      . 9 

The  Ambitious  Eose-Tree 76 

moufflou 93 

Lampblack         .                124 

The  Child  of  Urbino 133 

In  the  Apple-Country 161 

FiNDELKIND •  .      198 

Meleagris  Gallopavo 234 

The  liiTTLE  Earl '246 


?.GVi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGK 

"  Then  I  claim  the  Hand  of  Pacifica"         Frontispiece. 

The  NiJRNBERG  Stove 74 

"  Pretty  Poll  !  Oh,  such  a  Pretty  Poll  !"  .  .  89 
MotJFFLOu  acquitted  Himself  ably  as  ever  .  .  101 
"Old  Deposit  is  going  to  be  a  Sign-Post"  .        .        .  127 

"  Let  us  rest  a  little" 161 

Even  his  Dear  Sheep  he  hardly  heeded    .        .        .  206 

"  May  I  ASK  if  it  be  also  safe?" 240 

"  Will   y^ou  be   so   kind   as  to   let   me   know  what 
you  are  eating?" 261 


THE   NURNBERG    STOVE. 


August  lived  in  a  little  town  called  Hall.  Hall  is 
a  favorite  name  for  several  towns  in  Austria  and  in 
Germany;  but  this  one  especial  little  Hall,  in  the 
Upper  Innthal,  is  one  of  the  most  charming  Old- 
World  places  that  I  know,  and  August  for  his  part 
did  not  know  any  other.  It  has  the  green  meadows 
and  the  great  mountains  all  about  it,  and  the  gray- 
green  glacier-fed  water  rushes  by  it.  It  has  paved 
streets  and  enchanting  little  shops  that  have  all  lat- 
ticed panes  and  iron  gratings  to  them ;  it  has  a  very 
grand  old  Gothic  church,  that  has  the  noblest  blend- 
ings  of  light  and  shadow,  and  marble  tombs  of  dead 
knights,  and  a  look  of  infinite  strength  and  repose  as  a 
church  should  have.  Then  there  is  the  Muntze  Tower, 
black  and  w^iite,  rising  out  of  greenery  and  looking 
down  on  a  long  wooden  bridge  and  the  broad  rapid 
river;  and  there  is  an  old  schloss  which  has  been  made 
into  a  guard-house,  with  battlements  and  frescos  and 
heraldic  devices  in  gold  and  colors,  and  a  man-at-arm? 
carved  in  stone  standing  life-size  in  his  niche  and 
bearing  his  date  1530.  A  little  farther  on,  but  close 
at  hand,  is  a  cloister  with  beautiful  marble  columns 
and  tombs,  and  a  colossal  wood-carved  Calvary,  and 
beside  that  a  small  and  very  rich  chapel :  indeed,  so 

9 


10  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

full  is  the  little  town  of  the  undisturbed  past,  that  to 
walk  in  it  is  like  opening  a  missal  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
all  emblazoned  and  illuminated  with  saints  and  war- 
riors, and  it  is  so  clean,  and  so  still,  and  so  noble,  by- 
reason  of  its  monuments  and  its  historic  color,  that  I 
marvel  much  no  one  has  ever  cared  to  sing  its  praises. 
The  old  pious  heroic  life  of  an  age  at  once  more  restful 
and  more  brave  than  ours  still  leaves  its  spirit  there, 
and  then  there  is  the  girdle  of  the  mountains  all  around, 
and  that  alone  means  strength,  peace,  majesty. 

In  this  little  town  a  few  years  ago  August  Strehla 
lived  with  his  people  in  the  stone-paved  irregular 
square  where  the  grand  church  stands. 

He  was  a  small  boy  of  nine  years  at  that  time, — a 
chubby-faced  little  man  with  rosy  cheeks,  big  hazel 
eyes,  and  clusters  of  curls  the  brown  of  ripe  nuts.  His 
mother  was  dead,  his  father  was  poor,  and  there  were 
many  mouths  at  home  to  feed.  In  this  country  the 
winters  are  long  and  very  cold,  the  whole  land  lies 
wrapped  in  snow  for  many  months,  and  this  night  that 
he  was  trotting  home,  with  a  jug  of  beer  in  his  numb 
red  hands,  was  terribly  cold  and  dreary.  The  good 
burghers  of  Hall  had  shut  their  double  shutters,  and 
the  few  lamps  there  were  flickered  dully  behind  their 
quaint,  old-fashioned  iron  casings.  The  mountains 
indeed  were  beautiful,  all  snow-white  under  the  stars 
that  are  so  big  in  frost.  Hardly  any  one  was  astir; 
a  few  good  souls  wending  home  from  vespers,  a  tired 
post-boy  who  blew  a  shrill  blast  from  his  tasselled 
horn  as  he  pulled  up  his  sledge  before  a  hostelry,  and 
little  August  hugging  his  jug  of  beer  to  his  ragged 
sheepskin  coat,  were  all  who  were  abroad,  for  the  snow 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  H 

fell  heavily  and  the  good  folks  of  Hall  go  early  to 
their  beds.  He  could  not  run,  or  he  would  have 
spilled  the  beer ;  he  was  half  frozen  and  a  little  fright- 
ened, but  he  kept  up  his  courage  by  saying  over  and 
over  again  to  himself,  "  I  shall  soon  be  at  home  with 
dear  Hirschvogel." 

He  went  on  through  the  streets,  past  the  stone  man- 
at-arms  of  the  guard-house,  and  so  into  the  place  where 
the  great  church  was,  and  where  near  it  stood  his  father 
Karl  Strehla's  house,  with  a  sculptured  Bethlehem  over 
the  door-way,  and  the  Pilgrimage  of  the  Three  Kings 
painted  on  its  wall.  He  had  been  sent  on  a  long  errand 
outside  the  gates  in  the  afternoon,  over  the  frozen  fields 
and  the  broad  white  snow,  and  had  been  belated,  and 
had  thought  he  had  heard  the  wolves  behind  him  at 
every  step,  and  had  reached  the  town  in  a  great  state 
of  terror,  thankful  with  all  his  little  panting  heart  to 
see  the  oil-lamp  burning  under  the  first  house-shrine. 
But  he  had  not  forgotten  to  call  for  the  beer,  and  he 
carried  it  carefully  now,  though  his  hands  were  so 
numb  that  he  was  afraid  they  would  let  the  jug  down 
every  moment. 

The  snow  outlined  with  white  every  gable  and  cor- 
nice of  the  beautiful  old  wooden  houses;  the  moonlight 
shone  on  the  gilded  signs,  the  lambs,  the  grapes,  the 
eagles,  and  all  the  quaint  devices  that  hung  before  the 
doors ;  covered  lamps  burned  before  the  Nativities 
and  Crucifixions  painted  on  the  walls  or  let  into  the 
wood- work ;  here  and  there,  where  a  shutter  had  not 
been  closed,  a  ruddy  fire-light  lit  up  a  homely  interior, 
with  the  noisy  band  of  children  clustering  round  the 
house-mother  and  a  big  brown  loaf,  or  some  gossips 


•12  THE  NURNBERQ   STOVE. 

spinning  and  listening  to  the  cobbler's  or  the  barber's 
story  of  a  neighbor,  while  the  oil-wicks  glimmered, 
and  the  hearth-logs  blazed,  and  the  chestnuts  sputtered 
in  their  iron  roasting-pot.  Little  August  saw  all  these 
things,  as  he  saw  everything  with  his  two  big  bright 
eyes  that  had  such  curious  lights  and  shadows  in  them  ; 
but  he  went  heedfully  on  his  way  for  the  sake  of  the 
beer  which  a  single  slip  of  the  foot  would  make  him 
spill.  At  his  knock  and  call  the  solid  oak  door,  four 
centuries  old  if  one,  flew  open,  and  the  boy  darted  in 
with  his  beer,  and  shouted,  with  all  the  force  of  mirth- 
ful lungs,  "  Oh,  dear  Hirschvogel,  but  for  the  thought 
of  you  I  should  have  died !" 

It  was  a  large  barren  room  into  which  he  rushed 
with  so  much  pleasure,  and  the  bricks  were  bare  and 
uneven.  It  had  a  walnut-wood  press,  handsome  and 
very  old,  a  broad  deal  table,  and  several  wooden  stools 
for  all  its  furniture;  but  at  the  top  of  the  chamber, 
sending  out  warmth  and  color  together  as  the  lamp 
shed  its  rays  upon  it,  was  a  tower  of  porcelain,  bur- 
nished with  all  the  hues  of  a  king's  peacock  and  a 
queen's  jewels,  and  surmounted  with  armed  figures, 
and  shields,  and  flowers  of  heraldry,  and  a  great  golden 
crown  upon  the  highest  summit  of  all. 

It  was  a  stove  of  1532,  and  on  it  were  the  letters 
II.  R.  H.,  for  it  was  in  every  portion  the  handwork  of 
the  great  potter  of  Niirnberg,  Augustin  Hirschvogel, 
who  put  his  mark  thus,  as  all  the  world  knows. 

The  stove  no  doubt  had  stood  in  palaces  and  been 
made  for  princes,  had  warmed  the  crimson  stockings  of 
cardinals  and  the  gold-broidered  shoes  of  archduchesses, 
had  glowed  in  presence-chambers  and  lent  its  carbon 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  13 

to  help  kindle  sharp  brains  in  anxious  councils  of  state; 
no  one  knew  what  it  had  seen  or  done  or  been  fashioned 
for ;  but  it  was  a  right  royal  thing.  Yet  perhaps  it 
had  never  been  more  useful  than  it  was  now  in  this 
poor  desolate  room,  sending  down  heat  and  comfort 
into  the  troop  of  children  tumbled  together  on  a  wolf- 
skin at  its  feet,  who  received  frozen  August  among 
them  with  loud  shouts  of  joy. 

"Oh,  dear  Hirschvogel,  I  am  so  cold,  so  cold!"  said 
August,  kissing  its  gilded  lion's  claws.  "  Is  father  not 
in,  Dorothea  ?" 

"  No,  dear.     He  is  late." 

Dorothea  was  a  girl  of  seventeen,  dark-haired  and 
serious,  and  with  a  sweet  sad  face,  for  she  had  had 
many  cares  laid  on  her  shoulders,  even  whilst  still  a 
mere  baby.  She  was  the  eldest  of  the  Strehla  family ; 
and  there  were  ten  of  them  in  all.  Next  to  her  there 
came  Jan  and  Karl  and  Otho,  big  lads,  gaining  a  little 
for  their  own  living;  and  then  came  August,  who  went 
up  in  the  summer  to  the  high  alps  with  the  farmers' 
cattle,  but  in  winter  could  do  nothing  to  fill  his  own 
little  platter  and  pot ;  and  then  all  the  little  ones,  who 
could  only  open  their  mouths  to  be  fed  like  young 
birds, — Albrecht  and  Hilda,  and  Waldo  and  Christof, 
and  last  of  all  little  three-year-old  Ermeugilda,  with 
eyes  like  forget-me-nots,  whose  birth  had  cost  them 
the  life  of  their  mother. 

They  were  of  that  mixed  race,  half  Austrian,  half 
Italian,  so  common  in  the  Tyrol ;  some  of  the  children 
were  white  and  golden  as  lilies,  others  were  brown  and 
brilliant  as  fresh-fallen  chestnuts.  The  father  was  a 
good  man,  but  weak  and  weary  with  50  many  to  find 
2 


14  TEE  NiJRNBERO  STOVE. 

for  and  so  little  to  do  it  with.  He  worked  at  tlie  salt- 
furnaces,  and  by  that  gained  a  few  florins ;  people  said 
he  would  have  worked  better  and  kept  his  family  more 
easily  if  he  had  not  loved  his  pipe  and  a  draught  of  ale 
too  well ;  but  this  had  only  been  said  of  him  after  his 
wife's  death,  when  trouble  and  perplexity  had  begun 
to  dull  a  brain  never  too  vigorous,  and  to  enfeeble 
further  a  character  already  too  yielding.  As  it  was, 
the  wolf  often  bayed  at  the  door  of  the  Strehla  house- 
hold, without  a  wolf  from  the  mountains  coming  down. 
Dorothea  was  one  of  those  maidens  who  almost  work 
miracles,  so  far  can  their  industry  and  care  and  intelli- 
gence make  a  home  sweet  and  wholesome  and  a  single 
loaf  seem  to  swell  into  twenty.  The  children  were 
always  clean  and  happy,  and  the  table  was  seldom 
without  its  big  pot  of  soup  once  a  day.  Still,  very 
poor  they  were,  and  Dorothea's  heart  ached  with 
shame,  for  she  knew  that  their  father's  debts  were 
many  for  flour  and  meat  and  clothing.  Of  fuel  to 
feed  the  big  stove  they  had  always  enough  without 
cost,  for  their  mother's  father  was  alive,  and  sold  wood 
and  fir  cones  and  coke,  and  never  grudged  them  to  his 
grandchildren,  though  he  grumbled  at  Strehla's  im- 
providence and  hapless,  dreamy  ways. 

"  Father  says  we  are  never  to  wait  for  him  :  we  will 
have  supper,  now  you  have  come  home,  dear,"  said 
Dorothea,  who,  however  she  might  fret  her  soul  in 
secret  as  she  knitted  their  hose  and  mended  their 
shirts,  never  let  her  anxieties  cast  a  gloom  on  the  chil- 
dren ;  only  to  August  she  did  speak  a  little  sometimes, 
because  he  was  so  thoughtful  and  so  tender  of  her 
always,  and  knew  as  well  as  she  did  that  there  were 


THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE.  15 

troubles  about  money, — though  these  troubles  were 
vague  t3  them  both,  and  the  debtors  were  patient  and 
kindly,  being  neighbors  all  in  the  old  tAvisting  streets 
between  the  guard-house  and  the  river. 

Supper  was  a  huge  bowl  of  soup,  with  big  slices  of 
brown  bread  swimming  in  it  and  some  onions  bobbing 
up  and  down :  the  bowl  was  soon  emptied  by  ten 
wooden  spoons,  and  then  the  three  eldest  boys  slipped 
off  to  bed,  being  tired  with  their  rough  bodily  labor  in 
the  snow  all  day,  and  Dorothea  drew  her  spinning- 
wheel  by  the  stove  and  set  it  whirring,  and  the  little 
ones  got  August  down  upon  the  old  worn  wolf-skin 
and  clamored  to  him  for  a  picture  or  a  story.  For 
August  was  the  artist  of  the  family. 

He  had  a  piece  of  planed  deal  that  his  father  had 
given  him,  and  some  sticks  of  charcoal,  and  he  would 
draw  a  hundred  things  he  had  seen  in  the  day,  sweep- 
ing each  out  with  his  elbow  when  the  children  had 
seen  enough  of  it  and  sketching  another  in  its  stead, — 
faces  and  dogs'  heads,  and  men  in  sledges,  and  old 
women  in  their  furs,  and  pine-trees,  and  cocks  and 
hens,  and  all  sorts  of  animals,  and  now  and  then — 
very  reverently — a  Madonna  and  Child.  It  was  all 
very  rough,  for  there  was  no  one  to  teach  him  any- 
thing. But  it  was  all  life-like,  and  kept  the  whole 
troop  of  children  shrieking  with  laughter,  or  watching 
breathless,  with  wide  open,  wondering,  awed  eyes. 

They  were  all  so  happy:  what  did  they  care  for  the 
snow  outside?  Their  little  bodies  were  warm,  and 
their  hearts  merry ;  even  Dorothea,  troubled  about  the 
bread  for  the  morrow,  laughed  as  she  spun ;  and  Au- 
gust, with  all  his  soul  in  his  work,  and  little  rosy  Er- 


16  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

mengilda's  cheek  on  his  shoulder,  glowiug  after  hla 
frozen  afternoon,  cried  out  loud,  smiling,  as  he  looked 
up  at  the  stove  that  was  shedding  its  heat  down  on 
them  all, — 

"  Oh,  dear  Hirschvogel !  you  are  almost  as  great  and 
good  as  the  sun !  No ;  you  are  greater  and  better,  I 
think,  because  he  goes  away  nobody  knows  where  all 
these  long,  dark,  cold  hours,  and  does  not  care  how 
people  die  for  want  of  him ;  but  you — ^you  are  always 
ready :  just  a  little  bit  of  wood  to  feed  you,  and  you 
will  make  a  summer  for  us  all  the  winter  through !" 

The  grand  old  stove  seemed  to  smile  through  all  its 
iridescent  surface  at  the  praises  of  the  child.  No  doubt 
the  stove,  though  it  had  known  three  centuries  and 
more,  had  known  but  very  little  gratitude. 

It  was  one  of  those  magnificent  stoves  in  enamelled 
faience  which  so  excited  the  jealousy  of  the  other  pot- 
ters of  Niirnberg  that  in  a  body  they  demanded  of  the 
magistracy  that  Augustin  Hirschvogel  should  be  for- 
bidden to  make  any  more  of  them, — the  magistracy, 
happily,  proving  of  a  broader  mind,  and  having  no 
sympathy  with  the  wish  of  the  artisans  to  cripple  their 
greater  fellow. 

It  was  of  great  height  and  breadth,  with  all  the 
majolica  lustre  which  Hirschvogel  learned  to  give  to 
his  enamels  when  he  was  making  love  to  the  young 
Venetian  girl  whom  he  afterwards  married.  There 
was  the  statue  of  a  king  at  each  corner,  modelled  with 
as  much  force  and  splendor  as  his  friend  Albrecht 
Diirer  could  have  given  unto  them  on  coj)perplate  or 
canvas.  The  body  of  the  stove  itself  was  divided  into 
panels,  Avhich  had  the  Ages  of  Man  painted  on  them 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  17 

in  polychrome;  the  borders  of  the  panels  had  roses 
and  holly  and  laurel  and  other  foliage,  and  German 
mottoes  in  black  letter  of  odd  Old-World  moralizing, 
such  as  the  old  Teutons,  and  the  Dutch  after  them, 
love  to  have  on  their  chimney-places  and  their  drink- 
ing-cups,  their  dishes  and  flagons.  The  whole  was 
burnished  with  gilding  in  many  parts,  and  was  radiant 
everywhere  with  that  brilliant  coloring  of  which  the 
Hirschvogel  family,  painters  on  glass  and  great  in 
chemistry  as  they  were,  were  all  masters. 

The  stove  was  a  very  grand  thing,  as  I  say :  possibly 
Hirschvogel  had  made  it  for  some  mighty  lord  of  the 
Tyrol  at  that  time  when  he  was  an  imperial  guest  at 
Innspruck  and  fashioned  so  many  things  for  the  Schloss 
Amras  and  beautiful  Philippine  Welser,  the  burgher's 
daughter,  who  gained  an  archduke's  heart  by  her 
beauty  and  the  right  to  wear  his  honors  by  her  wit. 
Nothing  was  known  of  the  stove  at  this  latter  day 
in  Hall.  The  grandfather  Strehla,  who  had  been  a 
master-mason,  had  dug  it  up  out  of  some  ruins  where 
he  was  building,  and,  finding  it  without  a  flaw,  had 
taken  it  home,  and  only  thought  it  worth  finding  be- 
cause it  was  such  a  good  one  to  burn.  That  was  now 
sixty  years  past,  and  ever  since  then  the  stove  had 
stood  in  the  big  desolate  empty  room,  warming  three 
generations  of  the  Strehla  family,  and  having  seen 
nothing  prettier  perhaps  in  all  its  many  years  than 
the  children  tumbled  now  in  a  cluster  like  gathered 
flowers  at  its  feet.  For  the  Strehla  children,  born  to 
nothing  else,  were  all  born  with  beauty :  white  or 
brown,  they  were  equally  lovely  to  look  upon,  and 
when  they  went  into  the  church  to  mass,  with  their 


13  THE  NVRNBERG  STOVE. 

curling  locks  and  their  clasped  hands,  they  stood  under 
the  grim  statues  like  cherubs  flown  down  off  some 
fresco. 

"Tell  us  a  story,  August/'  they  cried,  in  chorus, 
when  they  had  seen  charcoal  pictures  till  they  were 
tired;  and  August  did  as  he  did  every  night  pretty 
nearly, — looked  up  at  the  stove  and  told  them  what 
he  imagined  of  the  many  adventures  and  joys  and  sor- 
rows of  the  human  being  who  figured  on  the  panels 
from  his  cradle  to  his  grave. 

To  the  children  the  stove  was  a  household  god.  In 
summer  they  laid  a  mat  of  fresh  moss  all  round  it,  and 
dressed  it  up  with  green  boughs  and  the  numberless 
beautiful  wild  flowers  of  the  Tyrol  country.  In  win- 
ter all  their  joys  centred  in  it,  and  scampering  home 
from  school  over  the  ice  and  snow  they  were  happy, 
knowing  that  they  would  soon  be  cracking  nuts  or 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  broad  ardent  glow  of  its  noble 
tower,  which  rose  eight  feet  high  above  them  with  all 
its  spires  and  pinnacles  and  crowns. 

Once  a  travelling  peddler  had  told  them  that  the 
letters  on  it  meant  Augustin  Hirschvogel,  and  that 
Hirschvogel  had  been  a  great  German  potter  and 
painter,  like  his  father  before  him,  in  the  art-sanctified 
city  of  Niirnberg,  and  had  made  many  such  stoves, 
that  were  all  miracles  of  beauty  and  of  workmanship, 
putting  all  his  heart  and  his  soul  and  his  faith  into  his 
labors,  as  the  men  of  those  earlier  ages  did,  and  think- 
ing but  little  of  gold  or  praise. 

An  old  trader,  too,  who  sold  curiosities  not  far  from 
the  cliurch,  had  told  August  a  little  more  about  the 
brave  family  of  Hirschvogel,  whose  houses  can  be  seen 


THE   NURNBERO  STOVE.  19 

in  Niirnberg  to  this  clay ;  of  old  Yeit,  the  first  of  them, 
who  painted  the  Gothic  windows  of  St.  Sebald  with 
the  marriage  of  the  Margravine ;  of  his  sons  and  of 
his  grandsons,  potters,  painters,  engravers  all,  and 
chief  of  them  great  Augustin,  the  Luca  della  Robbia 
of  the  North.  And  August's  imagination,  always 
quick,  had  made  a  living  personage  out  of  these  few 
records,  and  saw  Hirschvogel  as  though  he  were  in  the 
flesh  walking  up  and  down  the  Maximilian-Strass  in 
his  visit  to  Innspruck,  and  maturing  beautiful  things 
in  his  brain  as  he  stood  on  the  bridge  and  gazed  on  the 
emerald-green  flood  of  the  Inn. 

So  the  stove  had  got  to  be  called  Hirschvogel  in  the 
family,  as  if  it  were  a  living  creature,  and  little  August 
was  very  proud  because  he  had  been  named  after  that 
famous  old  dead  German  Avho  had  had  the  genius  to 
make  so  glorious  a  thing.  All  the  children  loved  the 
stove,  but  with  August  the  love  of  it  was  a  passion ; 
and  in  his  secret  heart  he  used  to  say  to  himself, 
"When  I  am  a  man,  I  will  make  just  such  things  too, 
and  then  I  will  set  Hirschvogel  in  a  beautiful  room  in 
a  house  that  I  will  build  myself  in  Innspruck  just 
outside  the  gates,  where  the  chestnuts  are,  by  the  river : 
that  is  what  I  will  do  when  I  am  a  man." 

For  August,  a  salt-baker's  son  and  a  little  cow- 
keeper  when  he  was  anything,  was  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  and  when  he  was  upon  the  high  alps  with  his 
cattle,  with  the  stillness  and  the  sky  around  him,  was 
quite  certain  that  he  would  live  for  greater  things  than 
driving  the  herds  up  when  the  spring-tide  came  among 
the  blue  sea  of  gentians,  or  toiling  down  in  the  town 
with  wood  and  with  timber  as  his  father  and  grand- 


20  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

father  did  every  day  of  their  lives.  He  was  a  strong 
and  healthy  little  fellow,  fed  on  the  free  mountain-air, 
and  he  was  very  happy,  and  loved  his  family  devotedly, 
and  was  as  active  as  a  squirrel  and  as  playful  as  a  hare ; 
but  he  kept  his  thoughts  to  himself,  and  some  of  them 
went  a  very  long  way  for  a  little  boy  who  was  only 
one  among  many,  and  to  whom  nobody  had  ever 
paid  any  attention  except  to  teach  him  his  letters  and 
tell  him  to  fear  God.  August  in  winter  was  only  a 
little,  hungry  school-boy,  trotting  to  be  catechised  by 
the  priest,  or  to  bring  the  loaves  from  the  bake-house, 
or  to  carry  his  father's  boots  to  the  cobbler ;  and  in 
summer  he  was  only  one  of  hundreds  of  cow-boys, 
who  drove  the  poor,  half-blind,  blinking,  stumbling 
cattle,  ringing  their  throat-bells,  out  into  the  sweet  in- 
toxication of  the  sudden  sunlight,  and  lived  up  with 
them  in  the  heights  among  the  Alpine  roses,  with  only 
the  clouds  and  the  snow-summits  near.  But  he  was 
always  thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  for  all  that ;  and 
under  his  little  sheepskin  winter  coat  and  his  rough 
hempen  summer  shirt  his  heart  had  as  much  courage 
in  it  as  Hofer's  ever  had, — great  Hofer,  who  is  a  house- 
hold word  in  all  the  Innthal,  and  whom  August  always 
reverently  remembered  when  he  went  to  the  city  of 
Innspruck  and  ran  out  by  the  foaming  water-mill  and 
under  the  wooded  height  of  Berg  Isel. 

August  lay  now  in  the  warmth  of  the  stove  and  told 
the  children  stories,  his  own  little  brown  face  grow- 
ing red  with  excitement  as  his  imagination  glowed  to 
fever-heat.  That  human  being  on  the  panels,  who  was 
drawn  there  as  a  baby  in  a  cradle,  as  a  boy  playing 
among  flowers,  as  a  lover  sighing  under  a  casement,  as 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  21 

a  soldier  in  the  midst  of  strife,  as  a  father  with  chil- 
dren round  him,  as  a  weary,  old,  blind  man  on  crutches, 
and,  lastly,  as  a  ransomed  soul  raised  up  by  angels,  had 
always  had  the  most  intense  interest  for  August,  and 
he  had  made,  not  one  history  for  him,  but  a  thousand ; 
he  seldom  told  them  the  same  tale  twice.  He  had 
never  seen  a  story-book  in  his  life ;  his  primer  and  his 
mass-book  were  all  the  volumes  he  had.  But  nature 
had  given  him  Fancy,  and  she  is  a  good  fairy  that 
makes  up  for  the  want  of  very  many  things!  only, 
alas !  her  wings  are  so  very  soon  broken,  poor  thing, 
and  then  she  is  of  no  use  at  all. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  all  to  go  to  bed,  children,"  said 
Dorothea,  looking  up  from  her  spinning.  "  Father  is 
very  late  to-night ;  you  must  not  sit  up  for  him." 

"Oh,  five  minutes  more,  dear  Dorothea!"  they 
pleaded ;  and  little  rosy  and  golden  Ermengilda  climbed 
up  into  her  lap.  "  Hirschvogel  is  so  warm,  the  beds 
are  never  so  warm  as  he.  Cannot  you  tell  us  another 
tale,  August  ?" 

"  No,"  cried  August,  whose  face  had  lost  its  light, 
now  that  his  story  had  come  to  an  end,  and  who  sat 
serious,  with  his  hands  clasped  on  his  knees,  gazing  on 
to  the  luminous  arabesques  of  the  stove. 

"  It  is  only  a  week  to  Christmas,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

"  Grandmother's  big  cakes !"  chuckled  little  Christof, 
who  was  five  years  old,  and  thought  Christmas  meant 
a  big  cake  and  nothing  else. 

"  What  will  Santa  Claus  find  for  'Gilda  if  she  be 
good?"  murmured  Dorothea  over  the  child's  sunny 
head ;  for,  however  hard  poverty  might  pinch,  it  could 
never  pinch  so  tightly  that  Dorothea  would  not  find 


22  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

some  wooden  toy  and  some  rosy  apples  to  put  in  her 
little  sister's  socks. 

"  Father  Max  has  promised  me  a  big  goose,  because 
I  saved  the  calf's  life  in  June,"  said  August ;  it  was 
the  twentieth  time  he  had  told  them  so  that  month,  he 
was  so  proud  of  it. 

"  And  Aunt  Maila  will  be  sure  to  send  us  wine  and 
honey  and  a  barrel  of  flour;  she  always  does,"  said 
Albrecht.  Their  aunt  Maila  had  a  chalet  and  a  little 
farm  over  on  the  green  slopes  towards  Dorp  Ampas. 

"  I  shall  go  up  into  the  woods  and  get  Hirschvogel's 
crown,"  said  August;  they  always  crowned  Hirsch- 
vogel  for  Christmas  with  pine  boughs  and  ivy  and 
mountain-berries.  The  heat  soon  withered  the  crown ; 
but  it  was  part  of  the  religion  of  the  day  to  them,  as 
much  so  as  it  was  to  cross  themselves  in  church  and 
raise  their  voices  in  the  "  O  Salutaris  Hostia." 

And  they  fell  chatting  of  all  they  would  do  on  the 
Christ-night,  and  one  little  voice  piped  loud  against 
another's,  and  they  were  as  happy  as  though  their 
stockings  would  be  full  of  golden  purses  and  jewelled 
toys,  and  the  big  goose  in  the  soup-pot  seemed  to  them 
such  a  meal  as  kings  would  envy. 

In  the  midst  of  their  chatter  and  laughter  a  blast  of 
frozen  air  and  a  spray  of  driven  snow  struck  like  ice 
through  the  room,  and  reached  them  even  in  the  warmth 
of  the  old  wolf-skins  and  the  great  stove.  It  was  the 
door  which  had  opened  and  let  in  the  cold ;  it  wa«! 
their  father  who  had  come  home. 

The  younger  children  ran  joyous  to  meet  him. 
Dorothea  pushed  the  one  wooden  arm-chair  of  the 
room  to  the  stove,  and  August  flew  to  set  the  jug  of 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  23 

beer  on  a  little  round  table,  and  fill  a  long  clay  pipe ; 
for  their  father  was  good  to  them  all,  and  seldom 
raised  his  voice  in  anger,  and  they  had  been  trained  by 
the  mother  they  had  loved  to  dutifulness  and  obedience 
and  a  watchful  affection. 

To-night  Karl  Strehla  responded  very  wearily  to  the 
young  ones'  welcome,  and  came  to  the  wooden  chair 
with  a  tired  step  and  sat  down  heavily,  not  noticing 
either  pipe  or  beer. 

"Are  you  not  well,  dear  father?"  his  daughter 
asked  him. 

"I  am  well  enough,"  he  answered,  dully,  and  sat 
there  with  his  head  bent,  letting  the  lighted  pipe  grow 
cold. 

■He  was  a  fair,  tall  man,  gray  before  his  time,  and 
bowed  with  labor. 

"  Take  the  children  to  bed,"  he  said,  suddenly,  at 
last,  and  Dorothea  obeyed.  August  stayed  behind, 
curled  before  the  stove ;  at  nine  years  old,  and  when 
one  earns  money  in  the  summer  from  the  farmers,  one 
is  not  altogether  a  child  any  more,  at  least  in  one's  own 
estimation. 

August  did  not  heed  his  father's  silence :  he  was 
used  to  it.  Karl  Strehla  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and, 
being  of  weakly  health,  was  usually  too  tired  at  the 
end  of  the  day  to  do  more  than  drink  his  beer  and 
sleep.  August  lay  on  the  wolf-skin,  dreamy  and  com- 
fortable, looking  up  through  his  drooping  eyelids  at 
the  golden  coronets  on  the  crest  of  the  great  stove,  and 
wondering  for  the  millionth  time  whom  it  had  been 
made  for,  and  what  grand  places  and  scenes  it  had 
known. 


24  THE  NVRNBERG  STOVE. 

Dorothea  came  down  from  putting  the  little  ones  in 
their  beds ;  the  cuckoo-clock  in  the  corner  struck  eight ; 
she  looked  to  her  father  and  the  untouched  pipe,  then 
sat  down  to  her  spinning,  saying  nothing.  She  thought 
he  had  been  drinking  in  some  tavern ;  it  had  been  often 
so  with  him  of  late. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  the  cuckoo  called  the 
quarter  twice;  August  dropped  asleep,  his  curls  fall- 
ing over  his  face;  Dorothea's  wheel  hummed  like  a 
cat. 

Suddenly  Karl  Strehla  struck  his  hand  on  the  table, 
sending  the  pipe  on  the  ground. 

"  I  have  sold  Hirschvogel,"  he  said ;  and  his  voice 
was  husky  and  ashamed  in  his  throat.  The  spinning- 
wheel  stopped.     August  sprang  erect  out  of  his  sleep. 

"Sold  Hirschvogel!"  If  their  father  had  dashed 
the  holy  crucifix  on  the  floor  at  their  feet  and  spat  on 
it,  they  could  not  have  shuddered  under  the  horror  of 
a  greater  blasphemy. 

"  I  have  sold  Hirschvogel !"  said  Karl  Strehla,  in 
the  same  husky,  dogged  voice.  "  I  have  sold  it  to  a 
travelling  trader  in  such  things  for  two  hundred  florins. 
What  would  you? — I  owe  double  that.  He  saw  it 
this  morning  when  you  were  all  out.  He  will  pack  it 
and  take  it  to  Munich  to-morrow." 

Dorothea  gave  a  low  shrill  cry : 

"  Oh,  father  ! — the  children — in  mid-winter !" 

She  turned  white  as  the  snow  without;  her  words 
died  away  in  her  throat. 

August  stood,  half  blind  with  sleep,  staring  with 
dazed  eyes  as  his  cattle  stared  at  the  sun  when  they 
came  out  from  their  winter's  prison. 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  25 

"  It  is  not  true  I  It  is  not  true !"  he  muttered. 
"  You  are  jesting,  father  ?" 

Strehla  broke  into  a  dreary  laugh. 

"  It  is  true.  Would  you  like  to  know  what  is  true 
too? — that  the  bread  you  eat,  and  the  meat  you  put  in 
this  pot,  and  the  roof  you  have  over  your  heads,  are 
none  of  them  paid  for,  have  been  none  of  them  paid 
for  for  months  and  months  :  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
grandfather  I  should  have  been  in  prison  all  summer 
and  autumn,  and  he  is  out  of  patience  and  will  do  no 
more  now.  There  is  no  work  to  be  had ;  the  masters 
go  to  younger  men  :  they  say  I  work  ill ;  it  may  be  so. 
Who  can  keep  his  head  above  water  with  ten  hungry 
children  dragging  him  down  ?  When  your  mother 
lived,  it  was  different.  Boy,  you  stare  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  mad  dog !  You  have  made  a  god  of  yon  china 
thing.  Well — it  goes :  goes  to-morrow.  Two  hun- 
dred florins,  that  is  something.  It  will  keep  me  out 
of  prison  for  a  little,  and  with  the  spring  things  may 
turn ^" 

August  stood  like  a  creature  paralyzed.  His  eyes 
were  wide  open,  fastened  on  his  father's  with  terror  and 
incredulous  horror ;  his  face  had  grown  as  white  as  his 
sister's ;  his  chest  heaved  with  tearless  sobs. 

"  It  is  not  true !  It  is  not  true !"  he  echoed,  stupidly. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  very  skies  must  fall,  and 
the  earth  perish,  if  they  could  take  away  Hirschvogel. 
They  might  as  soon  talk  of  tearing  down  God's  sun 
out  of  the  heavens. 

"  You  will  find  it  true,"  said  his  father,  doggedly, 
and  angered  because  he  was  in  his  own  soul  bitterly 
ashamed  to  have  bartered  away  the  heirloom  and  treas- 


26  THE  NUENBERQ  STOVE. 

ure  of  his  race  and  the  comfort  and  health-giver  of  his 
young  children.  "  You  will  find  it  true.  The  dealer 
has  paid  me  half  the  money  to-night,  and  will  pay  me 
the  other  half  to-morrow  when  he  packs  it  up  and 
takes  it  away  to  Munich.  No  doubt  it  is  worth  a  great 
deal  more, — at  least  I  suppose  so,  as  he  gives  that, — 
but  beggars  cannot  be  choosers.  The  little  black  stove 
in  the  kitchen  will  warm  you  all  just  as  well.  Who 
would  keep  a  gilded,  painted  thing  in  a  poor  house  like 
this,  when  one  can  make  two  hundred  florins  by  it  ? 
Dorothea,  you  never  sobbed  more  when  your  mother 
died.  What  is  it,  when  all  is  said  ? — a  bit  of  hard- 
ware much  too  grand-looking  for  such  a  room  as  this. 
If  all  the  Strehlas  had  not  been  born  fools  it  would 
have  been  sold  a  century  ago,  when  it  was  dug  up 
out  of  the  ground.  'It  is  a  stove  for  a  museum,' 
the  trader  said  when  he  saw  it.  To  a  museum  let  it 
go." 

August  gave  a  shrill  shriek  like  a  hare's  when  it  is 
caught  for  its  death,  and  threw  himself  on  his  knees 
at  his  father's  feet. 

"Oh,  father,  father!"  he  cried,  convulsively,  his 
hands  closing  on  Strehla's  knees,  and  his  uplifted  face 
blanched  and  distorted  with  terror.  "Oh,  father,  dear 
father,  you  cannot  mean  what  you  say?  Send  it  away 
— our  life,  our  sun,  our  joy,  our  comfort  ?  We  shall 
all  die  in  the  dark  and  the  cold.  Sell  me  rather.  Sell 
me  to  any  trade  or  any  pain  you  like;  I  will  not  mind. 
But  Hirschvogel ! — it  is  like  selling  the  very  cross  off 
the  altar  I  You  must  be  in  jest.  You  could  not  do 
such  a  thing — you  could  not! — ^you  who  have  always 
been  gentle  and  good,  and  who  have  sat  in  the  warmth 


THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE.  27 

here  year  after  year  with  our  mother.  It  is  not  a 
piece  of  hardware,  as  you  say;  it  is  a  living  thing,  for 
a  great  man's  thoughts  and  fancies  have  put  life  into 
it,  and  it  loves  us  though  we  are  only  poor  little  chil- 
dren, and  we  love  it  with  all  our  hearts  and  souls,  and 
up  in  heaven  I  am  sure  the  dead  Hirschvogel  knows ! 
Oh,  listen ;  I  will  go  and  try  and  get  work  to-morrow ! 
I  will  ask  them  to  let  me  cut  ice  or  make  the  paths 
through  the  snow.  There  must  be  something  I  could 
do,  and  I  will  beg  the  people  we  owe  money  to  to  wait; 
they  are  all  neighbors,  they  will  be  patient.  But  sell 
Hirschvogel ! — oh,  never !  never !  never !  Give  the 
florins  back  to  the  vile  man.  Tell  him  it  would  be 
like  selling  the  shroud  out  of  mother's  coffin,  or  the 
golden  curls  off  Ermengilda's  head  !  Oh,  father,  dear 
father !  do  hear  me,  for  pity's  sake !" 

Strehla  was  moved  by  the  boy's  anguish.  He  loved 
his  children,  though  he  was  often  weary  of  them,  and 
their  pain  was  pain  to  him.  But  besides  emotion,  and 
stronger  than  emotion,  was  the  anger  that  August 
roused  in  him :  he  hated  and  despised  himself  for  the 
barter  of  the  heirloom  of  his  race,  and  every  word  of 
the  child  stung  him  with  a  stinging  sense  of  shame. 

And  he  spoke  in  his  wrath  rather  than  in  his  sorrow. 

"You  are  a  little  fool,"  he  said,  harshly,  as  they  had 
never  heard  him  speak.  "  You  rave  like  a  play-actor. 
Get  up  and  go  to  bed.  The  stove  is  sold.  There  is 
no  more  to  be  said.  Children  like  you  have  nothing 
to  do  with  such  matters.  The  stove  is  sold,  and  goes 
to  Munich  to-morrow.  What  is  it  to  you  ?  Be  thank- 
ful I  can  get  bread  for  you.  Get  on  your  legs,  I  say, 
and  go  to  bed." 


28  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

Strehla  took  up  the  jug  of  ale  as  he  paused,  and 
drained  it  slowly  as  a  man  who  had  no  cares. 

August  sprang  to  his  feet  and  threw  his  hair  back 
off  his  face ;  the  blood  rushed  into  his  cheeks,  making 
them  scarlet;  his  great  soft  eyes  flamed  alight  with 
furious  passion. 

"  You  dare  not !"  he  cried,  aloud,  "you  dare  not  sell 
it,  I  say  !     It  is  not  yours  alone  ;  it  is  ours " 

Strehla  flung  the  emptied  jug  on  the  bricks  with  a 
force  that  shivered  it  to  atoms,  and,  rising  to  his  feet, 
struck  his  son  a  blow  that  felled  him  to  the  floor.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  that  he  had  ever  raised 
his  hand  against  any  one  of  his  children. 

Then  he  took  the  oil-lamp  that  stood  at  his  elbow 
and  stumbled  off  to  his  own  chamber  with  a  cloud 
before  his  eyes. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  said  August,  a  little  while 
later,  as  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  Dorothea  weeping 
above  him  on  the  wolf-skin  before  the  stove.  He  had 
been  struck  backward,  and  his  head  had  fallen  on  the 
hard  bricks  where  the  wolf-skin  did  not  reach.  He 
sat  up  a  moment,  with  his  face  bent  upon  his  hands. 

"I  remember  now,"  he  said,  very  low,  under  his 
breath. 

Dorothea  showered  kisses  on  him,  while  her  tears 
fell  like  rain. 

"  But,  oh,  dear,  how  could  you  speak  so  to  father  ?" 
she  murmured.     "  It  was  very  wrong." 

"  No,  I  was  right,"  said  August,  and  his  little  mouth, 
that  hitherto  had  only  curled  in  laughter,  curved  down- 
ward with  a  fixed  and  bitter  seriousness.  "  How  dare 
he?     How  dare  he?'  he  muttered,  with  his  head  sunk 


THE  NURNBERG   STOVE.  29 

in  his  hands.  "  It  is  not  his  alone.  It  belongs  to  us 
all.     It  is  as  much  yours  and  mine  as  it  is  his." 

Dorothea  could  only  sob  in  answer.  She  was  too 
frightened  to  speak.  The  authority  of  their  parents 
in  the  house  had  never  in  her  remembrance  been  ques- 
tioned. 

"  Are  you  hurt  by  the  fall,  dear  August  ?"  she  mur- 
mured, at  length,  for  he  looked  to  her  so  pale  and 
strange. 

"Yes — no.    I  do  not  know.    What  does  it  matter?" 

He  sat  up  upon  the  wolf-skin  with  passionate  pain 
upon  his  face ;  all  his  soul  was  in  rebellion,  and  he  was 
only  a  child  and  was  powerless. 

"  It  is  a  sin ;  it  is  a  theft ;  it  is  an  infamy,"  he  said, 
slowly,  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  gilded  feet  of  Hirsch- 
vogel. 

"  Oh,  August,  do  not  say  such  things  of  father !" 
sobbed  his  sister.  "Whatever  he  does,  we  ought  to 
think  it  right." 

August  laughed  aloud. 

"Is  it  right  that  he  should  spend  his  money  in 
drink  ? — that  he  should  let  orders  lie  unexecuted  ? — 
that  he  should  do  his  work  so  ill  that  no  one  cares  to 
employ  him? — that  he  should  live  on  grandfather's 
charity,  and  then  dare  sell  a  thing  that  is  ours  every 
whit  as  much  as  it  is  his  ?  To  sell  Hirschvogel !  Oh, 
dear  God  !  I  would  sooner  sell  my  soul !" 

"August!"  cried  Dorothea,  with  piteous  entreaty. 
He  terrified  her,  she  could  not  recognize  her  little,  gay, 
gentle  brother  in  those  fierce  and  blasphemous  words. 

August  laughed  aloud  again;  then  all  at  once  his 
laughter  broke  down  into  bitterest  weeping.    He  threw 


30  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

himself  forward  on  the  stove,  covering  it  with  kisses, 
and  sobbing  as  though  his  heart  weuld  burst  from  his 
bosom. 

What  could  he  do?     Nothing,  nothing,  nothing! 

"August,  dear  August,"  whispered  Dorothea,  pite- 
ously,  and  trembling  all  over, — for  she  was  a  very- 
gentle  girl,  and  fierce  feeling  terrified  her, — "  August, 
do  not  lie  there.  Come  to  bed :  it  is  quite  late.  In 
the  morning  you  will  be  calmer.  It  is  horrible  indeed, 
and  we  shall  die  of  cold,  at  least  the  little  ones ;  but 
if  it  be  father's  will " 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  August,  through  his  teeth, 
striving  to  still  the  storm  of  sobs  that  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot.  "  Let  me  alone.  In  the  morning ! — how 
can  you  speak  of  the  morning  ?" 

"  Come  to  bed,  dear,"  sighed  his  sister.  "  Oh, 
August,  do  not  lie  and  look  like  that !  you  frighten 
me.     Do  come  to  bed." 

''  I  shall  stay  here." 

"  Here !  all  night !" 

"  They  might  take  it  in  the  night.  Besides,  to  leave 
it  now .'" 

"  But  it  is  cold !  the  fire  is  out." 

''  It  will  never  be  warm  any  more,  nor  shall  we." 

All  his  childhood  had  gone  out  of  him,  all  his  glee- 
ful, careless,  sunny  temper  had  gone  with  it ;  he  spoke 
sullenly  and  wearily,  choking  down  the  great  sobs  in 
his  chest.  To  him  it  was  as  if  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come. 

His  sister  lingered  by  him  while  striving  to  persuade 
him  to  go  to  his  place  in  the  little  croMxled  bedchamber 
with  Albrecht  and  Waldo  and  Christof.     But  it  was 


THE  NVRNBERG  STOVE.  3] 

In  vain.  "  I  shall  stay  here,"  was  all  he  answered  her. 
And  he  stayed, — all  the  night  long. 

The  lamps  went  out ;  the  rats  came  and  ran  across 
the  floor ;  as  the  hours  crept  on  through  midnight  and 
past,  the  cold  intensified  and  the  air  of  the  room  grew 
like  ice.  August  did  not  move ;  he  lay  with  his  face 
downward  on  the  golden  and  rainbow-hued  pedestal  of 
the  household  treasure,  which  henceforth  was  to  be  cold 
for  evermore,  an  exiled  thing  in  a  foreign  city  in  a  far- 
off  land. 

Whilst  yet  it  was  dark  his  three  elder  brothers  came 
down  the  stairs  and  let  themselves  out,  each  bearing  his 
lantern  and  going  to  his  work  in  stone-yard  and  timber- 
yard  and  at  the  salt-works.  They  did  not  notice  him ; 
they  did  not  know  what  had  happened. 

A  little  later  his  sister  came  down  with  a  light  in 
her  hand  to  make  ready  the  house  ere  morning  should 
break. 

She  stole  up  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
timidly. 

"Dear  August,  you  must  be  frozen.  August,  do 
look  up !  do  speak  !" 

August  raised  his  eyes  with  a  wild,  feverish,  sullen 
look  in  them  tliat  she  had  never  seen  there.  His  face 
was  ashen  white :  his  lips  were  like  fire.  He  had  not 
slept  all  night;  but  his  passionate  sobs  had  given  way 
to  delirious  waking  dreams  and  numb  senseless  trances, 
which  had  alternated  one  on  another  all  through  the 
freezing,  lonely,  horrible  hours. 

"  It  will  never  be  warm  again,"  he  muttered,  "  never 
again !" 

Dorothea  clasped  him  with  trembling  hands. 


32  TEE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

"  August !  do  you  not  know  me  ?"  she  cried,  in  an 
agony.  "  I  am  Dorothea.  Wake  up,  dear — wake  up ! 
It  is  morning,  only  so  dark  !" 

August  shuddered  all  over. 

"  The  morning !"  he  echoed. 

He  slowly  rose  up  on  to  his  feet. 

"  I  will  go  to  grandfather,"  he  said,  very  low.  "  He 
is  always  good :  perhaps  he  could  save  it." 

Loud  blows  with  the  heavy  iron  knocker  of  the 
house-door  drowned  his  words.  A  strange  voice  called 
aloud  through  the  keyhole, — 

"  Let  me  in  !  Quick ! — there  is  no  time  to  lose  ! 
More  snow  like  this,  and  the  roads  will  all  be  blocked. 
Let  me  in  !  Do  you  hear  ?  I  am  come  to  take  the 
great  stove." 

August  sprang  erect,  his  fists  doubled,  his  eyes 
blazing. 

"  You  shall  never  touch  it !"  he  screamed ;  "  you 
shall  never  touch  it !" 

"  Who  shall  prevent  us  ?"  laughed  a  big  man,  who 
was  a  Bavarian,  amused  at  the  fierce  little  figure  fronting 
him. 

"  I !"  said  August.  "  You  shall  never  have  it !  you 
shall  kill  me  first !" 

"Strehla,"  said  the  big  man,  as  August's  father 
entered  the  room,  "  you  have  got  a  little  mad  dog  here : 
muzzle  him." 

One  way  and  another  they  did  muzzle  him.  He 
fought  like  a  little  demon,  and  hit  out  right  and  left, 
and  one  of  his  blows  gave  the  Bavarian  a  black  eye. 
But  he  was  soon  mastered  by  four  grown  men,  and  his 
father  flung  him  with  no  light  hand  out  from  the  door 


THE  NURNBERO  STOVE.  33 

of  the  back  entrance,  and  the  buyers  of  the  stately  and 
beautiful  stove  set  to  work  to  pack  it  heed  fully  and 
carry  it  away. 

When  Dorothea  stole  out  to  look  for  August,  he  was 
nowhere  in  sight.  She  went  back  to  little  'Gilda,  who 
was  ailing,  and  sobbed  over  the  child,  whilst  the  others 
stood  looking  on,  dimly  understanding  that  with 
Hirschvogel  was  going  all  the  warmth  of  their  bodies, 
all  the  light  of  their  hearth. 

Even  their  father  now  was  sorry  and  ashamed ;  but 
two  hundred  florins  seemed  a  big  sum  to  him,  and, 
after  all,  he  thought  the  children  could  warm  them- 
selves quite  as  well  at  the  black  iron  stove  in  the 
kitchen.  Besides,  whether  he  regretted  it  now  or  not, 
tlie  work  of  the  Niirnberg  potter  was  sold  irrevocably, 
and  he  had  to  stand  still  and  see  the  men  from  Munich 
wrap  it  in  manifold  wrappings  and  bear  it  out  into  the 
snowy  air  to  where  an  ox-cart  stood  in  waiting  for  it. 

In  another  moment  Hirschvogel  was  gone, — gone 
forever  and  aye. 

August  had  stood  still  for  a  time,  leaning,  sick  and 
faint  from  the  violence  that  had  been  used  to  him, 
against  the  back  wall  of  the  house.  The  wall  looked 
on  a  court  where  a  well  was,  and  the  backs  of  other 
houses,  and  beyond  them  the  spire  of  the  Muntze 
Tower  and  the  peaks  of  the  mountains. 

Into  the  court  an  old  neighbor  hobbled  for  water, 
and,  seeing  the  boy,  said  to  him, — 

"  Child,  is  it  true  your  father  is  selling  the  big  painted 
stove?" 

August  nodded  his  head,  then  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 


34  THE  NURNBERG   STOVE. 

"Well,  for  sure  he  is  a  fool,"  said  the  neighbor. 
"  Heaven  forgive  me  for  calling  him  so  before  his  own 
child  !  but  the  stove  was  worth  a  mint  of  money.  I 
do  remember  in  my  young  days,  in  old  Anton's  time 
(that  was  your  great-grandfather,  my  lad),  a  stranger 
from  Vienna  saw  it,  and  said  that  it  was  worth  its 
weight  in  gold." 

August's  sobs  went  on  their  broken,  impetuous 
course. 

"  I  loved  it !  I  loved  it !"  he  moaned.  "  I  do  not 
care  what  its  value  was.     I  loved  it !     /  loved  it !" 

"  You  little  simpleton !"  said  the  old  man,  kindly. 
"  But  you  are  wiser  than  your  father,  when  all's  said. 
If  sell  it  he  must,  he  should  have  taken  it  to  good 
Herr  Steiner  over  at  Spriiz,  who  would  have  given 
him  honest  value.  But  no  doubt  they  took  him  over 
his  beer, — ay,  ay  !  but  if  I  were  you  I  would  do  better 
than  cry.     I  would  go  after  it." 

August  raised  his  head,  the  tears  raining  down  his 
cheeks. 

"  Go  after  it  when  you  are  bigger,"  said  the  neigh- 
bor, with  a  good-natured  wish  to  cheer  him  up  a  little. 
"  The  world  is  a  small  thing  after  all :  I  was  a  travel- 
ling clockmaker  once  upon  a  time,  and  I  know  that 
your  stove  will  be  safe  enough  whoever  gets  it ;  any- 
thing that  can  be  sold  for  a  round  sum  is  always 
wrapped  up  in  cotton  wool  by  everybody.  Ay,  ay, 
don't  cry  so  much ;  you  will  see  your  stove  again  some 
day." 

Then  the  old  man  hobbled  away  to  draw  his  brazen 
pail  full  of  water  at  the  well. 

August  remained  leanino:  against  the  wall :  his  head 


THE  NVRNBERO   STOVE.  35 

was  buzzino;  and  his  heart  flutterino;  with  the  new  idea 
which  had  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  "Go  after 
it,"  had  said  the  old  man.  He  thought,  "  Why  not  go 
with  it  ?"  He  loved  it  better  than  any  one,  even  better 
than  Dorothea;  and  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of 
meeting  his  father  again,  his  father  who  had  sold 
Hirschvogel. 

He  was  by  this  time  in  that  state  of  exaltation  in 
which  the  impossible  looks  quite  natural  and  common- 
place. His  tears  were  still  wet  on  his  pale  cheeks,  but 
they  had  ceased  to  fall.  He  ran  out  of  the  court-yard 
by  a  little  gate,  and  across  to  the  huge  Gothic  porch  of 
the  church.  From  there  he  could  watch  unseen  his 
father's  house-door,  at  which  were  always  hanging  some 
blue-and-gray  pitchers,  such  as  are  common  and  so 
picturesque  in  Austria,  for  a  part  of  the  house  was  let 
to  a  man  who  dealt  in  pottery. 

He  hid  himself  in  the  grand  portico,  which  he  had 
so  often  passed  through  to  go  to  mass  or  complin 
within,  and  presently  his  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  for 
he  saw  the  straw-enwrapped  stove  brought  out  and  laid 
with  infinite  care  on  the  bullock-dray.  Two  of  the 
Bavarian  men  mounted  beside  it,  and  the  sleigh-wagon 
slowly  crept  over  the  snow  of  the  place, — snow  crisp 
and  hard  as  stone.  The  noble  old  minster  looked  its 
grandest  and  most  solemn,  with  its  dark-gray  stone 
and  its  vast  archways,  and  its  porch  that  was  itself  as 
big  as  many  a  church,  and  its  strange  gargoyles  and 
lamp-irons  black  against  the  snow  on  its  roof  and 
on  the  pavement;  but  for  once  August  had  no  eyes 
for  it:  he  only  watched  for  his  old  friend.  Then 
he,  a  little   unnoticeable   figure  enough,  like  a  score 


36  THE  NVRNBERG  STOVE. 

of  other  b(>ys  in  Hall,  crept,  unseen  by  any  of  his 
brothers  or  sisters,  out  of  the  porch  and  over  the 
shelving  uneven  square,  and  followed  in  the  wake  of 
the  dray. 

Its  course  lay  towards  the  station  of  the  railway, 
which  is  close  to  the  salt-works,  whose  smoke  at  times 
sullies  this  part  of  clean  little  Hall,  though  it  does  not 
do  very  much  damage.  From  Hall  the  iron  road 
runs  northward  through  glorious  country  to  Salzburg, 
Vienna,  Prague,  Buda,  and  southward  over  the  Bren- 
ner into  Italy.  Was  Hirschvogel  going  north  or  south? 
This  at  least  he  would  soon  know. 

August  had  often  hung  about  the  little  station,  watch- 
ing the  trains  come  and  go  and  dive  into  the  heart  of 
the  hills  and  vanish.  No  one  said  anything  to  him 
for  idling  about ;  people  are  kind-hearted  and  easy  of 
temper  in  this  pleasant  land,  and  children  and  dogs  are 
both  happy  there.  He  heard  the  Bavarians  arguing 
and  vociferating  a  great  deal,  and  learned  that  they 
meant  to  go  too  and  wanted  to  go  with  the  great  stove 
itself.  But  this  they  could  not  do,  for  neither  could 
the  stove  go  by  a  passenger-train  nor  they  themselves 
go  in  a  goods-train.  So  at  length  they  insured  their 
precious  burden  for  a  large  sum,  and  consented  to  send 
it  by  a  luggage-train  which  was  to  pass  through  Hall 
in  half  an  hour.  The  swift  trains  seldom  deign  to 
notice  the  existence  of  Hall  at  all. 

August  heard,  and  a  desperate  resolve  made  itself 
up  in  his  little  mind.  Where  Hirschvogel  went  would 
he  go.  He  gave  one  terrible  thought  to  Dorothea — 
poor,  gentle  Dorothea! — sitting  in  the  cold  at  home, 
then  set  to  work  to  execute  his  project.     How  he  man- 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  37 

aged  it  he  never  knew  very  clearly  himself,  but  certain 
it  is  that  when  the  goods-train  from  the  north,  that 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Linz  on  the  Danube, 
moved  out  of  Hall,  August  was  hidden  behind  tlie 
stove  in  the  great  covered  truck,  and  wedged,  unseen 
and  undreamt  of  by  any  human  creature,  amidst  tlie 
cases  of  wood-carving,  of  clocks  and  clock-work,  of 
Vienna  toys,  of  Turkish  carpets,  of  Russian  skins,  of 
Hungarian  wines,  which  shared  the  same  abode  as  did 
his  swathed  and  bound  Hirschvogel.  No  doubt  he 
was  very  naughty,  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  so :  his  whole  mind  and  soul  were  absorbed  in 
the  one  entrancing  idea,  to  follow  his  beloved  friend 
and  fire-king. 

It  was  very  dark  in  the  closed  truck,  which  had  only 
a  little  window  above  the  door  ;  and  it  was  crowded, 
and  had  a  strong  smell  in  it  from  the  Russian  hides 
and  the  hams  that  were  in  it.  But  August  was  not 
frightened;  he  was  close  to  Hirschvogel,  and  pres- 
ently he  meant  to  be  closer  still;  for  he  meant  to  do 
nothing  less  than  get  inside  Hirschvogel  itself.  Being 
a  shrewd  little  boy,  and  having  had  by  great  luck 
two  silver  groschen  in  his  breeches-pocket,  which  he 
had  earned  the  day  before  by  chopping  wood,  he  had 
bought  some  bread  and  sausage  at  the  station  of  a 
woman  there  who  knew  him,  and  who  thought  he  was 
going  out  to  his  uncle  Joachim's  chalet  above  Jen- 
bach.  This  he  had  with  him,  and  this  he  ate  in  the 
darkness  and  the  lumbering,  pounding,  thundering 
noise  which  made  him  giddy,  as  never  had  he  been 
in  a  train  of  any  kind  before.  Still  he  ate,  having 
had  no  breakfast,  and  being  a  child,  and  half  a  German, 
4 


38  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

aud  not  knowing  at  all  how  or  when  he  ever  would 
eat  again. 

When  he  had  eaten,  not  as  much  as  he  wanted,  but 
as  much  as  he  thought  was  prudent  (for  who  could  say 
when  he  would  be  able  to  buy  anything  more?),  he  set 
to  work  like  a  little  mouse  to  make  a  hole  in  the  withes 
of  straw  and  hay  which  enveloped  the  stove.  If  it  had 
been  put  in  a  packing-case  he  would  have  been  defeated 
at  the  onset.  As  it  was,  he  gnawed,  and  nibbled,  and 
pulled,  and  pushed,  just  as  a  mouse  would  have  done, 
making  his  hole  where  he  guessed  that  the  opening  of 
the  stove  was, — the  opening  through  which  he  had  so 
often  thrust  the  big  oak  logs  to  feed  it.  No  one  dis- 
turbed him;  the  heavy  train  went  lumbering  on  and 
on,  and  he  saw  nothing  at  all  of  the  beautiful  moun- 
tains, and  shining  waters,  and  great  forests  through 
which  he  was  being  carried.  He  was  hard  at  w^ork 
getting  through  the  straw  and  hay  and  twisted  ropes ; 
and  get  through  them  at  last  he  did,  and  found  the 
door  of  the  stove,  which  he  knew  so  well,  and  which 
was  quite  large  enough  for  a  child  of  his  age  to  slip 
through,  and  it  was  this  which  he  had  counted  upon 
doing.  Slip  through  he  did,  as  he  had  often  done  at 
home  for  fun,  and  curled  himself  up  there  to  see  if  he 
could  anyhow  remain  during  many  hours.  He  found 
that  he  could ;  air  came  in  through  the  brass  fret- work 
of  the  stove;  and  with  admirable  caution  in  such  a 
little  fellow  he  leaned  out,  drew  the  hay  and  straw  to- 
gether, and  rearranged  the  ropes,  so  that  no  one  could 
ever  have  dreamed  a  little  mouse  had  been  at  them. 
Then  he  curled  himself  up  again,  this  time  more  like 
a  dormouse  than  anything  else ;  and,  being  safe  inside 


THE   NIRNBERG  STOVE.  39 

his  dear  Hirschvogel  aud  intensely  cold,  lie  *vent  fast 
asleep  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  bed  at  home  with  Al- 
brecht  and  Christof  on  either  side  of  hi:n.  The  train 
lumbered  on,  stopping  often  and  long,  as  the  habit  of 
goods-trains  is,  sweeping  the  snow  away  with  its  cow- 
switcher,  and  rumbling  through  the  deep  heart  of  the 
mountains,  with  its  lamps  aglow  like  the  eyes  of  a  dog 
in  a  night  of  frost. 

The  train  rolled  on  in  its  heavy,  slow  fashion,  and 
the  child  slept  soundly  for  a  long  while.  AYhen  he 
did  awake,  it  was  quite  dark  outside  in  the  land ;  he 
could  not  see,  and  of  course  he  was  in  absolute  dark- 
ness ;  and  for  a  while  he  was  sorely  frightened,  and 
trembled  terribly,  and  sobbed  in  a  quiet  heart-broken 
fashion,  thinking  of  them  all  at  home.  Poor  Doro- 
thea !  how  anxious  she  would  be !  How  she  would 
run  over  the  town  and  walk  up  to  grandfather's  at 
Dorf  Ampas,  and  perhaps  even  send  over  to  Jeubach, 
thinking  he  had  taken  refuge  with  Uncle  Joachim! 
His  conscience  smote  him  for  the  sorrow  he  must  be 
even  then  causing  to  his  gentle  sister;  but  it  never 
occurred  to  him  to  try  and  go  back.  If  he  once  were 
to  lose  sight  of  Hirschvogel  how  could  he  ever  hope  to 
find  it  again?  how  could  he  ever  know  whither  it  had 
gone, — north,  south,  east,  or  west?  The  old  neighbor 
had  said  that  the  world  was  small ;  but  August  knew 
at  least  that  it  must  have  a  great  many  places  in  it : 
that  he  had  seen  himself  on  the  maps  on  his  school- 
house  walls.  Almost  any  other  little  boy  would,  I 
ihink,  have  been  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at  the  po- 
sition in  which  he  found  himself;  but  August  was 
brave,  and  he  had  a  firm  belief  that  God  and  Hirsch- 


40  THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE. 

vogel  would  take  care  of  liim.  The  master-potter  oi 
Niirnberg  was  always  present  to  his  mind,  a  kindly, 
benign,  and  gracious  spirit,  dwelling  manifestly  in  that 
porcelain  tower  whereof  he  had  been  the  maker. 

A  droll  fancy,  you  say?  But  every  child  with  a 
soul  in  him  has  quite  as  quaint  fancies  as  this  one  was 
of  August's. 

So  he  got  over  liis  terror  and  his  sobbing  both, 
though  he  was  so  utterly  in  the  dark.  He  did  not 
feel  cramped  at  all,  because  the  stove  was  so  large,  and 
air  he  had  in  plenty,  as  it  came  through  the  fret-work 
running  round  the  top.  He  was  hungry  again,  and 
again  nibbled  with  prudence  at  his  loaf  and  his  sausage. 
He  could  not  at  all  tell  the  hour.  Every  time  the  train 
stopped  and  he  heard  the  banging,  stamping,  shouting, 
and  jangling  of  chains  that  went  on,  his  heart  seemed 
to  jump  up  into  his  mouth.  If  they  should  find  him 
out !  Sometimes  porters  came  and  took  away  this  case 
and  the  other,  a  sack  here,  a  bale  there,  now  a  big  bag, 
now  a  dead  chamois.  Every  time  the  men  trampled 
near  him,  and  swore  at  each  other,  and  banged  this 
and  that  to  and  fro,  he  was  so  frightened  that  his  very 
breath  seemed  to  stop.  When  they  came  to  lift  the 
stove  out,  would  they  find  him  ?  and  if  they  did  find 
him,  would  they  kill  him  ?  That  was  what  he  kept 
thinking  of  all  the  way,  all  through  the  dark  hours, 
which  seemed  without  end.  The  goods-trains  are 
usually  very  slow,  and  are  many  days  doing  what  a 
quick  train  does  in  a  few  hours.  This  one  was  quicker 
than  most,  because  it  was  bearing  goods  to  the  King 
of  Bavaria;  still,  it  took  all  the  short  winter's  day 
and  the  long  winter's  night  and  half  another  day  to  go 


THE  NiJRNBERQ  STOVE.  41 

over  ground  that  tlie  mail-trains  cover  in  a  forenoon. 
It  passed  great  armored  Kuifstein  standing  across  the 
beautiful  and  solemn  gorge,  denying  the  right  of  way 
to  all  the  foes  of  Austria.  It  passed  twelve  hours  later, 
after  lying  by  in  out-of-the-way  stations,  pretty  Eosen- 
heim,  that  marks  the  border  of  Bavaria.  And  here 
the  Niirnberg  stove,  with  August  inside  it,  was  lifted 
out  heedfully  and  set  under  a  covered  way.  When  it 
was  lifted  out,  the  boy  had  hard  work  to  keep  in  his 
screams ;  he  was  tossed  to  and  fro  as  the  men  lifted  the 
huge  thing,  and  the  earthenware  walls  of  his  beloved 
fire-king  were  not  cushions  of  down.  However,  though 
they  swore  and  grumbled  at  the  weight  of  it,  they  never 
suspected  that  a  living  child  was  inside  it,  and  they 
carried  it  out  on  to  the  platform  and  set  it  down  under 
the  roof  of  the  goods-shed.  There  it  passed  the  rest 
of  the  night  and  all  the  next  morning,  and  August 
was  all  the  while  within  it. 

The  winds  of  early  winter  sweep  bitterly  over  Ro- 
senheim, and  all  the  vast  Bavarian  plain  was  one  white 
sheet  of  snow.  If  there  had  not  been  whole  armies  of 
men  at  work  always  clearing  the  iron  rails  of  the  snow, 
no  trains  could  ever  have  run  at  all.  Happily  for 
August,  the  thick  wrappings  in  which  the  stove  was 
enveloped  and  the  stoutness  of  its  own  make  screened 
him  from  the  cold,  of  which,  else,  he  must  have  died, — 
frozen.  He  had  still  some  of  his  loaf,  and  a  little — a 
very  little — of  his  sausage.  What  he  did  begin  to 
suffer  from  was  thirst;  and  this  frightened  him  almost 
more  than  anything  else,  for  Dorothea  had  read  aloud 
to  them  one  night  a  story  of  the  tortures  some  wrecked 
men  had  endured  because  they  could  not  find  any  water 
4* 


42  THE  NURNBERO  STOVE, 

but  the  salt  sea.  It  was  many  hours  since  he  had  last 
taken  a  drink  from  the  wooden  spout  of  their  old 
pump,  which  brought  them  the  sparkling,  ice-cold 
water  of  the  hills. 

But,  fortunately  for  him,  the  stove,  having  been 
marked  and  registered  as  "  fragile  and  valuable,"  was 
not  treated  quite  like  a  mere  bale  of  goods,  and  the 
Rosenheim  station-master,  who  knew  its  consignees, 
resolved  to  send  it  on  by  a  passenger-train  that  would 
leave  there  at  daybreak.  And  when  this  train  went 
out,  in  it,  among  piles  of  luggage  belonging  to  other 
travellers,  to  Vienna,  Prague,  Buda-Pest,  Salzburg, 
was  August,  still  undiscovered,  still  doubled  up  like 
a  mole  in  the  winter  under  tlie  grass.  Those  words, 
"fragile  and  valuable,"  had  made  the  men  lift  Hirsch- 
vogel  gently  and  with  care.  He  had  begun  to  get 
used  to  his  prison,  and  a  little  used  to  the  incessant 
pounding  and  jumbling  and  rattling  and  shaking  with 
which  modern  travel  is  always  accompanied,  though 
modern  invention  does  deem  itself  so  mightily  clever. 
All  in  the  dark  he  was,  and  he  was  terribly  thirsty ; 
but  he  kept  feeling  the  earthenware  sides  of  the  Niirn- 
berg  giant  and  saying,  softly,  "  Take  care  of  me ;  oh, 
take  care  of  me,  dear  Hirschvogel !" 

He  did  not  say,  "  Take  me  back ;"  for,  now  that  he 
was  fairly  out  in  the  world,  he  wished  to  see  a  little  of 
it.  He  began  to  t-hink  that  they  must  have  been  all 
over  the  world  in  all  this  time  that  the  rolling  and 
roaring  and  hissing  and  jangling  had  been  about  his 
ears ;  shut  up  in  the  dark,  he  began  to  remember  all 
the  tales  that  had  been  told  in  Yule  round  the  fire  at 
his  grandfather's  good  house  at  Dorf,  of  gnomes  and 


THE  NiJRNBERG  STOVE.  43 

elves  and  subterranean  terrors,  and  the  Erl  King 
riding  on  the  black  horse  of  night,  and — and — and 
he  began  to  sob  and  to  tremble  again,  and  this  time 
did  scream  outright.  But  the  steam  was  screaming 
itself  so  loudly  that  no  one,  had  there  been  any  one 
nigh,  would  have  heard  him ;  and  in  another  minute 
or  so  the  train  stopped  with  a  jar  and  a  jerk,  and  he 
in  his  cage  could  hear  men  crying  aloud,  "  Miinchen  ! 
Miinchen !" 

Then  he  knew  enough  of  geography  to  know  that 
he  was  in  the  heart  of  Bavaria.  He  had  had  an  uncle 
killed  in  the  Bayerischenwald  by  the  Bavarian  forest 
guards,  when  in  the  excitement  of  hunting  a  black 
bear  he  had  overpassed  the  limits  of  the  Tyrol  fron- 
tier. 

That  fate  of  his  kinsman,  a  gallant  young  chamois- 
hunter  who  had  taught  him  to  handle  a  trigger  and 
load  a  muzzle,  made  the  very  name  of  Bavaria  a 
terror  to  August. 

"  It  is  Bavaria !  It  is  Bavaria !"  he  sobbed  to  the 
stove;  but  the  stove  said  nothing  to  him;  it  had  no  fire 
in  it.  A  stove  can  no  more  speak  without  fire  than  a 
man  can  see  without  light.  Give  it  fire,  and  it  will 
sing  to  you,  tell  tales  to  you,  offer  you  in  return  all 
the  sympathy  you  ask. 

"It  is  Bavaria!"  sobbed  August;  for  it  is  always  a 
name  of  dread  augury  to  the  Tyroleans,  by  reason  of 
those  bitter  struggles  and  midnight  shots  and  untimely 
deaths  which  come  from  those  meetings  of  jiiger  and 
hunter  in  the  Bayerischenwald.  But  the  train  stopped; 
Munich  was  reached,  and  August,  hot  and  cold  by 
turns,  and  shaking  like  a  little  aspen-leaf,  felt  himself 


44  THE  NURNBERG   STOVE. 

once  more  carried  out  on  the  shoulders  of  men,  rolled 
along  on  a  truck,  and  finally  set  down,  where  he  knew 
not,  only  he  knew  he  was  thirsty, — so  thirsty!  If 
only  he  could  have  reached  his  hand  out  and  scooped 
up  a  little  snow ! 

He  thought  he  had  been  moved  on  this  truck  many 
miles,  but  in  truth  the  stove  had  been  only  taken  from 
the  railway-station  to  a  shop  in  the  Marienplatz. 
Fortunately,  the  stove  was  always  set  upright  on  its 
four  gilded  feet,  an  injunction  to  that  effect  having 
been  affixed  to  its  written  label,  and  on  its  gilded  feet 
it  stood  now  in  the  small  dark  curiosity-shop  of  one 
Hans  Rhilfer. 

"  I  shall  not  unpack  it  till  Anton  comes,"  he  heard 
a  man's  voice  say ;  and  then  he  heard  a  key  grate  in  a 
lock,  and  by  the  unbroken  stillness  that  ensued  he  con- 
cluded he  was  alone,  and  ventured  to  peep  through  the 
straw  and  hay.  What  he  saw  was  a  small  square  room 
filled  with  pots  and  pans,  pictures,  carvings,  old  blue 
jugs,  old  steel  armor,  shields,  daggers,  Chinese  idols, 
Vienna  china,  Turkish  rugs,  and  all  the  art  lumber 
and  fabricated  rubbish  of  a  bric-d-brac  dealer's.  It 
seemed  a  wonderful  place  to  him ;  but,  oh  !  was  there 
one  drop  of  water  in  it  all?  That  was  his  single 
thought ;  for  his  tongue  was  parching,  and  his  throat 
felt  on  fire,  and  his  chest  began  to  be  dry  and  choked 
as  with  dust.  There  was  not  a  drop  of  Avater,  but 
there  was  a  lattice  window  grated,  and  beyond  the 
window  was  a  wide  stone  ledge  covered  with  snow. 
August  cast  one  look  at  the  locked  door,  darted  out  of 
his  hiding-place,  ran  and  opened  the  window,  crammed 
the  snow  into  his  mouth  again  and  again,  and  then 


THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE.  45 

flew  back  into  the  stove,  drew  the  hay  and  straw  over 
the  place  he  entered  by,  tied  the  cords,  and  shut  the 
brass  door  down  on  himself.  He  had  brought  some 
big  icicles  in  with  him,  and  by  them  his  thirst  was 
finally,  if  only  temporarily,  quenched.  Then  he  sat 
still  in  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  listening  intently,  wide 
awake,  and  once  more  recovering  his  natural  bold- 
ness. 

The  thought  of  Dorothea  kept  nipping  his  heart 
anc"  his  conscience  with  a  hard  squeeze  now  and  then ; 
but  he  thought  to  himself,  "  If  I  can  take  her  back 
Hirschvogel,  then  how  pleased  she  will  be,  and  how 
little  'Gilda  will  clap  her  hands !"  He  was  not  at  all 
selfish  in  his  love  for  Hirschvogel :  he  wanted  it  for 
them  all  at  home  quite  as  much  as  for  himself.  There 
was  at  the  bottom  of  his  mind  a  kind  of  ache  of  shame 
that  his  father — his  own  father — should  have  stripped 
their  hearth  and  sold  their  honor  thus. 

A  robin  had  been  perched  upon  a  stone  griflBn 
sculptured  on  a  house-eave  near.  August  had  felt  for 
the  crumbs  of  his  loaf  in  his  pocket,  and  had  thrown 
them  to  the  little  bird  sitting  so  easily  on  the  frozen 
snow. 

In  the  darkness  where  he  was  he  now  heard  a  little 
song,  made  faint  by  the  stove-wall  and  the  window- 
glass  that  was  between  him  and  it,  but  still  distinct 
and  exquisitely  sweet.  It  was  the  robin,  singing  after 
feeding  on  the  crumbs.  August,  as  he  heard,  burst 
into  tears.  He  thought  of  Dorothea,  who  every  morn- 
ing threw  out  some  grain  or  some  bread  on  the  snow 
before  the  church.  "  What  use  is  it  going  there,"  she 
said,  "  if  we  forget  the  sweetest  creatures  God  has 


46  THE  NURNBERQ   STOVE. 

made  ?"  Poor  Dorothea !  Poor,  good,  tender,  much- 
burdened  little  soul !  He  thought  of  her  till  his  tears 
ran  like  rain. 

Yet  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  to  dream  of  going 
home.     Hirschvogel  was  here. 

Presently  the  key  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  door, 
he  heard  heavy  footsteps  and  the  voice  of  the  man 
who  had  said  to  his  father,  "  You  have  a  little  mad 
dog ;  muzzle  him !"  The  voice  said,  "  Ay,  ay,  you 
have  called  me  a  fool  many  times.  Now  you  shall  see 
what  I  have  gotten  for  two  hundred  dirty  florins. 
Potztausend!  never  did  you  do  such  a  stroke  of  work." 

Then  the  other  voice  grumbled  and  swore,  and  the 
steps  of  the  two  men  approached  more  closely,  and  the 
heart  of  the  child  went  pit-a-pat,  pit-a-pat,  as  a  mouse's 
does  when  it  is  on  the  top  of  a  cheese  and  hears  a 
housemaid's  broom  sweeping  near.  They  began  to 
strip  the  stove  of  its  wrappings :  that  he  could  tell  by 
the  noise  they  made  with  the  hay  and  the  straw.  Soou 
they  had  stripped  it  wholly  :  that,  too,  he  knew  by  the 
oaths  and  exclamations  of  wonder  and  surprise  and 
rapture  which  broke  from  the  man  who  had  not  seen 
it  before. 

"  A  right  royal  thing !  A  wonderful  and  never-to- 
be-rivalled  thing!  Grander  than  the  great  stove  of 
Hohen-Salzburg  !     Sublime !  magnificent !  matchless !" 

So  the  epithets  ran  on  in  thick  guttural  voices,  dif- 
fusing a  smell  of  lager-beer  so  strong  as  they  spoke  that 
it  reached  August  crouching  in  his  stronghold.  If 
they  should  open  the  door  of  the  stove!  That  was 
his  frantic  fear.  If  they  should  open  it,  it  would  be 
all  over  with  him.     They  would  drag  him  out ;  most 


THE  NVRNBERO   STOVE.  47 

likely  they  would  kill  him,  he  thought,  as  his  mother's 
young  brother  had  been  killed  in  the  Wald. 

The  perspiration  rolled  off  his  forehead  in  his  agony ; 
but  he  had  control  enough  over  himself  to  keep  quiet, 
and  after  standing  by  the  Niirnberg  master's  work  for 
nigh  an  hour,  praising,  marvelling,  expatiating  in  the 
lengthy  German  tongue,  the  men  moved  to  a  little 
distance  and  began  talking  of  sums  of  money  and  di- 
vided profits,  of  which  discourse  he  could  make  out  no 
meaning.  All  he  could  make  out  was  that  the  name  of 
the  king — the  king — the  king  came  over  very  often  in 
their  arguments.  He  fancied  at  times  they  quarrelled, 
for  they  swore  lustily  and  their  voices  rose  hoarse  and 
high ;  but  after  a  while  they  seemed  to  pacify  each  other 
and  agree  to  something,  and  were  in  great  glee,  and  so 
in  these  merry  spirits  came  and  slapped  the  luminous 
sides  of  stately  Hirschvogel,  and  shouted  to  it, — 

"  Old  Mumchance,  you  have  brought  us  rare  good 
luck  !  To  think  you  were  smoking  in  a  silly  fool  of  a 
salt-baker's  kitchen  all  these  years  !" 

Then  inside  the  stove  August  jumped  up,  with 
flaming  cheeks  and  clinching  hands,  and  was  almost  on 
the  point  of  shouting  out  to  them  that  they  were  the 
thieves  and  should  say  no  evil  of  his  father,  when  he 
remembered,  just  in  time,  that  to  breathe  a  word  or 
make  a  sound  was  to  bring  ruin  on  himself  and  sever 
him  forever  from  Hirschvogel.  So  he  kept  quite  still, 
and  the  men  barred  the  shutters  of  the  little  lattice  and 
went  out  by  the  door,  double-locking  it  after  them. 
He  had  made  out  from  their  talk  that  they  were  going 
to  show  Hirschvogel  to  some  great  person:  therefore 
he  kept  quite  still  and  dared  not  move. 


48  THE  NiJRNBERG   STOVE. 

Muffled  sounds  came  to  him  through  the  shutters 
from  the  streets  below, — the  rolling  of  wheels,  tiie 
clanging  of  church-bells,  and  bursts  of  that  military 
music  which  is  so  seldom  silent  in  the  streets  of  Mu- 
nich. An  hour  perhaps  passed  by ;  sounds  of  steps  on 
the  stairs  kept  him  in  perpetual  apprehension.  lu  the 
intensity  of  his  anxiety,  he  forgot  that  he  was  hungry 
and  many  miles  away  from  cheerful,  Old  World  little 
Hall,  lying  by  the  clear  gray  river-water,  with  the 
ramparts  of  the  mountains  all  around. 

Presently  the  door  opened  again  sharply.  He  could 
hear  the  two  dealers'  voices  murmuring  unctuous  words, 
in  which  "honor,"  "gratitude,"  and  many  fine  long 
noble  titles  played  the  chief  parts.  The  voice  of  an- 
other person,  more  clear  and  refined  than  theirs,  an- 
swered them  curtly,  and  then,  close  by  the  Niirnberg 
stove  and  the  boy's  ear,  ejaculated  a  single  "  Wunder- 
schon  /"  August  almost  lost  his  terror  for  himself  in 
his  thrill  of  pride  at  his  beloved  Hirschvogel  being 
thus  admired  in  the  great  city.  He  thought  the  master- 
potter  must  be  glad  too. 

"  Wanderschon .'"  ejaculated  the  stranger  a  second 
time,  and  then  examined  the  stove  in  all  its  parts,  read 
all  its  mottoes,  gazed  long  on  all  its  devices. 

"  It  must  have  been  made  for  the  Emperor  Maxi- 
milian," he  said  at  last;  and  the  poor  little  boy,  mean- 
while, within,  was  "hugged  up  into  nothing,"  as  you 
children  say,  dreading  that  every  moment  he  would 
open  the  stove.  And  open  it  truly  he  did,  and  ex- 
amined the  brass-work  of  the  door;  but  inside  it  was 
so  dark  that  crouching  August  passed  unnoticed, 
screwed  up  into  a  ball  like  a  hedgehog  as  he  was. 


THE  NiJRNBERQ  STOVE.  49 

The  gentleman  shut  to  the  door  at  length,  without 
havhig  seen  anything  strange  inside  it;  and  then  he 
talked  long  and  low  with  the  tradesmen,  and,  as  his 
accent  was  different  from  that  which  August  was  used 
to,  the  child  could  distinguish  little  that  he  said,  except 
the  name  of  the  king  and  the  word  "gulden"  again 
and  again.  After  a  while  he  went  away,  one  of  the 
dealers  accompanying  him,  one  of  them  lingering  be- 
hind to  bar  up  the  shutters.  Then  this  one  also 
withdrew  again,  double-locking  the  door. 

The  poor  little  hedgehog  uncurled  itself  and  dared 
to  breathe  aloud. 

What  time  was  it? 

Late  in  the  day,  he  thought,  for  to  accompany  the 
stranger  they  had  lighted  a  lamp;  he  had  heard  the 
scratch  of  the  match,  and  through  the  brass  fret- work 
had  seen  the  lines  of  light. 

He  would  have  to  pass  the  night  here,  that  was  cer- 
tain. He  and  Hirschvogel  were  locked  in,  but  at  least 
they  were  together.  If  only  he  could  have  had  some- 
thing to  eat !  He  thought  with  a  pang  of  how  at  this 
hour  at  home  they  ate  the  sweet  soup,  sometimes  with, 
apples  in  it  from  Aunt  Maila's  farm  orchard,  and  sang 
together,  and  listened  to  Dorothea's  reading  of  little 
tales,  and  basked  in  the  glow  and  delight  that  had 
beamed  on  them  from  the  great  Niirnberg  fire-king. 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  little  'Gilda !  What  is  she  doing 
without  the  dear  Hirschvogel?"  he  thought.  Poor 
little  'Gilda !  she  had  only  now  the  black  iron  stove  of 
the  ugly  little  kitchen.     Oh,  how  cruel  of  father ! 

August  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  dealers  blame  or 
laugh  at  his  father,  but  he  did  feel  that  it  had  been  so, 
G        d  6 


50  THE  NVRNBERG   STOVE. 

SO  cruel  to  sell  Hirschvogel.  Tlie  mere  memory  of  all 
those  long  winter  evenings,  when  they  had  all  closed 
round  it,  and  roasted  chestnuts  or  crab-apples  in  it,  and 
listened  to  the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the  deep 
sound  of  the  church-bells,  and  tried  very  much  to 
make  each  other  believe  that  the  wolves  still  came 
down  from  the  mountains  into  the  streets  of  Hall,  and 
were  that  very  minute  growling  at  the  house  door, — 
all  this  memory  coming  on  him  with  the  sound  of  the 
city  bells,  and  the  knowledge  that  night  drew  near 
upon  him  so  completely,  being  added  to  his  hunger 
and  his  fear,  so  overcame  him  that  he  burst  out  crying 
for  the  fiftieth  time  since  he  had  been  inside  the  stove, 
and  felt  that  he  would  starve  to  death,  and  won- 
dered dreamily  if  Hirschvogel  would  care.  Yes,  he 
was  sure  Hirschvogel  would  care.  Had  he  not  decked 
it  all  summer  long  with  alpine  roses  and  edelweiss  and 
heaths  and  made  it  sweet  with  thyme  and  honeysuckle 
and  great  garden-lilies  ?  Had  he  ever  forgotten  M'hen 
Santa  Clans  came  to  make  it  its  crown  of  holly  and 
ivy  and  wreathe  it  all  around  ? 

"Oh,  shelter  me;  save  me;  take  care  of  me!"  he 
prayed  to  the  old  fire-king,  and  forgot,  poor  little  man, 
that  he  had  come  on  this  wild-goose  chase  northward 
to  save  and  take  care  of  Hirschvogel ! 

After  a  time  he  dropped  asleep,  as  children  can  do 
when  they  weep,  and  little  robust  hill-born  boys  most 
surely  do,  be  they  where  they  may.  It  was  not  very 
cold  in  this  lumber-room ;  it  was  tightly  shut  up,  and 
very  full  of  things,  and  at  the  back  of  it  were  the  hot 
pipes  of  an  adjacent  house,  where  a  great  deal  of  fuel 
was  burnt.     Moreover,  August's   clothes  were   warm 


THE  NURNBERG   STOVE.  51 

ones,  and  his  blood  was  young.  So  he  was  not  cold, 
though  Munich  is  terribly  cold  in  the  nights  of  Decem- 
ber ;  and  he  slept  on  and  on, — which  was  a  comfort  to 
him,  for  he  forgot  his  woes,  and  his  perils,  and  his 
hunger,  for  a  time. 

Midnight  was  once  more  chiming  from  all  the 
brazen  tongues  of  the  city  when  he  awoke,  and,  all 
being  still  around  him,  ventured  to  put  his  head  out  of 
the  brass  door  of  the  stove  to  see  why  such  a  strange 
bright  light  was  round  him. 

It  was  a  very  strange  and  brilliant  light  indeed ; 
and  yet,  what  is  perhaps  still  stranger,  it  did  not 
frighten  or  amaze  him,  nor  did  what  he  saw  alarm 
him  either,  and  yet  I  think  it  would  have  done  you  or 
me.  For  what  he  saw  was  nothing  less  than  all  the 
bria-a-hraG  in  motion. 

A  big  jug,  an  Apostel-Krug,  of  Kruessen,  was  sol- 
emnly dancing  a  minuet  with  a  plump  Faenza  jar;  a 
tall  Dutch  clock  was  going  through  a  gavotte  with  a 
spindle-legged  ancient  chair;  a  very  droll  porcelain 
figure  of  Littenhausen  was  bowing  to  a  very  stiif  sol- 
dier in  terre  cuite  of  Ulm;  an  old  violin  of  Cremona 
was  playing  itself,  and  a  queer  little  shrill  plaintive 
music  that  thought  itself  merry  came  from  a  painted 
spinnet  covered  with  faded  roses ;  some  gilt  Spanish 
leather  had  got  up  on  the  wall  and  laughed  ;  a  Dresden 
mirror  was  tripping  about,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  a 
Japanese  bonze  was  riding  along  on  a  griffin ;  a  slim 
Venetian  rapier  had  come  to  blows  with  a  stout  Fer- 
rara  sabre,  all  about  a  little  pale-faced  chit  of  a  damsel 
in  white  Nymphenburg  china ;  and  a  portly  Franconian 
pitcher  in  grh  gris  was  calling  aloud,  "  Oh,  these  Ital- 


52  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

iaus !  always  at  feud  !"  But  nobody  listened  to  him 
at  all.  A  great  number  of  little  Dresden  cups  and 
saucers  were  all  skipping  and  waltzing;  the  teapots, 
with  their  broad  round  faces,  were  spinning  their  own 
lids  like  teetotums ;  the  high-backed  gilded  chairs  were 
having  a  game  of  cards  together ;  and  a  little  Saxe 
poodle,  with  a  blue  ribbon  at  its  throat,  was  running 
from  one  to  another,  whilst  a  yellow  cat  of  Cornelis 
Lachtleven's  rode  about  on  a  Delft  horse  in  blue  pot- 
tery of  1489.  Meanwhile  the  brilliant  light  shed  on 
the  scene  came  from  three  silver  candelabra,  though 
they  had  no  candles  set  up  in  them ;  and,  what  is  the 
greatest  miracle  of  all,  August  looked  on  at  these  mad 
freaks  and  felt  no  sensation  of  wonder !  He  only,  as 
he  heard  the  violin  and  the  spinnet  playing,  felt  an 
irresistible  desire  to  dance  too. 

No  doubt  his  face  said  what  he  wished ;  for  a 
lovely  little  lady,  all  in  pink  and  gold  and  white,  with 
poM'dered  hair,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  and  all  made 
of  the  very  finest  and  fairest  Meissen  china,  tripped  up 
to  him,  and  smiled,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  led 
him  out  to  a  minuet.  And  he  danced  it  perfectly, — 
poor  little  August  in  his  thick,  clumsy  shoes,  and  his 
thick,  clumsy  sheepskin  jacket,  and  his  rough  home- 
spun linen,  and  his  broad  Tyrolean  hat !  He  must 
have  danced  it  perfectly,  this  dance  of  kings  and  queens 
in  days  when  crowns  were  duly  honored,  for  the  lovely 
lady  always  smiled  benignly  and  never  scolded  him  at 
all,  and  danced  so  divinely  herself  to  the  stately  meas- 
ures the  spinnet  was  playing  that  August  could  not 
take  his  eyes  off  her  till,  their  minuet  ended,  she  sat 
down  on  her  own  white-and-gold  bracket. 


THE  NURNBERQ   STOVE.  53 

"I  am  the  Princess  of  Saxe-Royale,"  she  said  to 
him,  with  a  benignant  smile;  "and  you  have  got 
through  that  minuet  very  fairly." 

Then  he  ventured  to  say  to  her, — 

"  Madame  my  princess,  could  you  tell  me  kindly 
why  some  of  the  figures  and  furniture  dance  and  speak, 
and  some  lie  up  in  a  corner  like  lumber?  It  doe? 
make  me  curious.     Is  it  rude  to  ask  ?" 

For  it  greatly  puzzled  him  why,  when  some  of  the 
bric-ct-brac  was  all  full  of  life  and  motion,  some  was 
quite  still  and  had  not  a  single  thrill  in  it. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  powdered  lady,  "  is  it 
possible  that  you  do  not  know  the  reason?  Why, 
those  silent,  dull  things  are  imitation  !" 

This  she  said  with  so  much  decision  that  she  evi- 
dently considered  it  a  condensed  but  complete  answer. 

"  Imitation  ?"  repeated  August,  timidly,  not  under- 
standing. 

"  Of  course !  Lies,  falsehoods,  fabrications !"  said 
the  princess  in  pink  shoes,  very  vivaciously.  "  They 
only  pretend  to  be  what  we  are !  They  never  wake 
up :  how  can  they  ?  No  imitation  ever  had  any  soul  in 
it  yet." 

"  Oh  !"  said  August,  humbly,  not  even  sure  that  he 
understood  entirely  yet.  He  looked  at  Hirschvogel : 
surely  it  had  a  royal  soul  within  it :  would  it  not  wake 
up  and  speak?  Oh  dear!  how  he  longed  to  hear  the 
voice  of  his  fire-king !  And  he  began  to  forget  that 
he  stood  by  a  lady  who  sat  upon  a  pedestal  of  gold- 
and-white  china,  with  the  year  1746  cut  on  it,  and  the 
Meissen  mark. 

"  What  will  you  be  when  you  are  a  man  ?"  said  the 
5* 


54  THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE. 

little  lady,  sharply,  for  her  })lack  eyes  were  quick 
though  her  red  lips  were  smiling.  "  Will  you  work 
for  the  Konigliche  Porcellan-Manufadur,  like  my  great 
deadKandler?" 

"I  have  never  thought,"  said  August,  stammering; 
"at  least — that  is — I  do  wish — I  do  hope  to  be  a 
painter,  as  was  Master  Augustin  Hirschvogel  at  Niirn- 
berg." 

"  Bravo !"  said  all  the  real  briG-d-brac  in  one  breath  , 
and  the  two  Italian  rapiers  left  off  fighting  to  cry, 
"Benone  /"  For  there  is  not  a  bit  of  true  bric-d-brae 
in  all  Europe  that  does  not  know  the  names  of  the 
mighty  masters. 

August  felt  quite  pleased  to  have  won  so  much 
applause,  and  grew  as  red  as  the  lady's  shoes  with 
bashful  contentment. 

"  I  knew  all  the  Hirschvogel,  from  old  Veit  down- 
wards," said  a  fat  gr^  de  Flandre  beer-jug :  "  I  myself 
was  made  at  Niirnberg."  And  he  bowed  to  the  great 
stove  very  politely,  taking  off  his  own  silver  hat — I 
mean  lid — with  a  courtly  sweep  that  he  could  scarcely 
have  learned  from  burgomasters.  The  stove,  however, 
was  silent,  and  a  sickening  suspicion  (for  what  is  such 
heart-break  as  a  suspicion  of  what  we  love?)  (^me 
through  the  mind  of  August:  Was  Hirschvogel  only 
imitation  f 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  he  said  to  himself,  stoutly:  though 
Hirschvogel  never  stirred,  never  spoke,  yet  would  he 
keep  all  faith  in  it !  After  all  their  happy  years  to- 
gether, after  all  the  nights  of  warmth  and  joy  he  owed 
it,  should  he  doubt  his  own  friend  and  hero,  whose 
gilt  lion's  feet  he  had  kissed  in  his  babyhood?     No, 


THE  NiJRNBERG  STOVE.  55 

no,  no,  no !"  he  said,  again,  with  so  much  emphasis 
that  the  Lady  of  Meissen  looked  sharply  again  at  him. 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  pretty  disdain ;  "  no,  believe 
me,  they  may  '  pretend'  forever.  They  can  never  look 
like  us !  They  imitate  oven  our  marks,  but  never  can 
they  look  like  the  real  thing,  never  can  they  chassent 
de  racey 

"How  should  they?"  said  a  bronze  statuette  of 
Vischer's.  "  They  daub  themselves  green  with  ver- 
digris, or  sit  out  in  the  rain  to  get  rusted ;  but  green 
and  rust  are  not  jpatina  ;  only  the  ages  can  give  that !" 

"And  my  imitations  are  all  in  primary  colors,  staring 
colors,  hot  as  the  colors  of  a  hostelry's  sign-board !" 
said  the  Lady  of  Meissen,  with  a  shiver. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  g7'^  de  Flandve  over  there,  who 
pretends  to  be  a  Hans  Kraut,  as  I  am,"  said  the  jug 
with  the  silver  hat,  pointing  with  his  handle  to  a  jug 
that  lay  prone  on  its  side  in  a  corner.  "  He  has  copied 
me  as  exactly  as  it  is  given  to  moderns  to  copy  us. 
Almost  he  might  be  mistaken  for  me.  But  yet  what 
a  difference  there  is !  How  crude  are  his  blues !  how 
evidently  done  over  the  glaze  are  his  black  letters! 
He  has  tried  to  give  himself  my  very  twist ;  but  what 
a  lamentable  exaggeration  of  that  playful  deviation  in 
my  lines  whiqh  in  his  becomes  actual  deformity !" 

"  And  look  at  that,"  said  the  gilt  Cordovan  leather, 
with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  a  broad  piece  of  gilded 
leather  spread  out  on  a  table,  "  They  will  sell  him 
cheek  by  jowl  with  me,  and  give  him  my  name ;  but 
look !  /  am  overlaid  with  pure  gold  beaten  tiiin  as  a 
film  and  laid  on  me  in  absolute  honesty  by  worthy 
Diego  de  las  G  >rgias,  worker  in  leather  of  kively  Cor- 


56  THE  NURNBERG   STOVE. 

dova  in  the  blessed  reign  of  Ferdinand  the  Most 
Christian.  His  gilding  is  one  part  gold  to  eleven 
other  parts  of  brass  and  rubbish,  and  it  has  been  laid 
on  him  with  a  brush — a  brush! — pah!  of  course  he 
will  be  as  black  as  a  crock  in  a  few  years'  time,  whilst 
I  am  as  bright  as  when  I  first  was  made,  and,  unless  I 
am  burnt  as  my  Cordova  burnt  its  heretics,  I  shall 
shine  on  forever." 

"  They  carve  pear- wood  because  it  is  so  soft,  and  dye 
it  brown,  and  call  it  me  !"  said  an  old  oak  cabinet,  with 
a  chuckle. 

"  That  is  not  so  painful ;  it  does  not  vulgarize  you 
so  much  as  the  cups  they  paint  to-day  and  christen 
after  me !"  said  a  Carl  Theodor  cup  subdued  in  hue, 
yet  gorgeous  as  a  jewel. 

"  Nothing  can  be  so  annoying  as  to  see  common 
gimcracks  aping  me!"  interposed  the  princess  in  the 
pink  shoes. 

"They  even  steal  my  motto,  though  it  is  Scrip- 
ture," said  a  Trauerhrug  of  Regensburg  in  black-and- 
white. 

"And  my  own  dots  they  put  on  plain  English  china 
creatures !"  sighed  the  little  white  maid  of  Nymphen- 
burg. 

"  And  they  sell  hundreds  and  thousancjs  of  common 
china  plates,  calling  them  after  me,  and  baking  my 
saints  and  my  legends  in  a  muffle  of  to-day ;  it  is  blas- 
phemy !"  said  a  stout  plate  of  Gubbio,  which  in  its 
year  of  birth  had  seen  the  face  of  Maestro  Giorgio. 

"  That  is  what  is  so  terrible  in  these  hric-d.-brao 
places,"  said  the  princess  of  Meissen.  "  It  brings  one 
in  contact  with  such  low,  imitative  creatures;  one  really 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  57 

is  safe  nowhere  nowadays  unless  under  glass  at  the 
Louvre  or  South  Kensington." 

"  And  they  get  even  there,"  sighed  the  gr^  de  Flan- 
dre.  "A  terrible  thing  happened  to  a  dear  friend  of 
mine,  a  terre  cuite  of  Blasius  (you  know  the  tei-res  cuites 
of  Blasius  date  from  1560).  Well,  he  was  put  under 
glass  in  a  museum  that  shall  be  nameless,  and  he  found 
himself  set  next  to  his  own  imitation  born  and  baked 
yesterday  at  Frankfort,  and  what  think  you  the  mis- 
erable creature  said  to  him,  with  a  grin?  'Old  Pipe- 
clay,'— that  is  what  he  called  my  friend, — '  the  fellow 
that  bought  me  got  just  as  much  commission  on  me  as 
the  fellow  that  bought  you,  and  that  was  all  that  he 
thought  about.  You  know  it  is  only  the  public  money 
that  goes !'  And  the  horrid  creature  grinned  again  till 
he  actually  cracked  himself.  There  is  a  Providence 
above  all  things,  even  museums." 

"  Providence  might  have  interfered  before,  and  saved 
the  public  money,"  said  the  little  Meissen  lady  with 
the  pink  shoes. 

"After  all,  does  it  matter?"  said  a  Dutch  jar  of 
Haarlem.  "All  the  shamming  in  the  world  will  not 
make  them  us !" 

"One  does  not  like  to  be  vulgarized,"  said  the  Lady 
of  Meissen,  angrily. 

"My  maker,  the  Krabbetje,*  did  not  trouble  his 
head  about  that,"  said  the  Haarlem  jar,  proudly.  "The 
Krabbetje  made  me  for  the  kitchen,  the  bright,  clean, 
snow-white  Dutch  kitchen,  wellnigh   three  centuries 


*  Jan  Asselyn,  called  Krabbetje,  the  Little  Crab,  born  16.' 0, 
master-potter  of  Delft  and  Haarlem. 


58  THE  NURNBERQ   STOVE. 

ago,  and  now  I  am  thought  worthy  the  palace ;  yet  I 
wish  I  were  at  home ;  yes,  I  wish  I  could  see  the  good 
Dutch  vrouw,  and  the  shining  canals,  and  the  great 
green  meadows  dotted  with  the  kine." 

"  Ah !  if  we  could  all  go  back  to  our  makers !" 
sighed  the  Gubbio  plate,  thinking  of  Giorgio  Andreoli 
and  the  glad  and  gracious  days  of  the  Renaissance :  and 
somehow  the  words  touched  the  frolicsome  souls  of  the 
dancing  jars,  the  spinning  teapots,  the  chairs  that  were 
playing  cards ;  and  the  violin  stopped  its  merry  music 
with  a  sob,  and  the  spinnet  sighed, — thinking  of  dead 
hands. 

Even  the  little  Saxe  poodle  howled  for  a  master  for- 
ever lost;  and  only  the  swords  went  on  quarrelling, 
and  made  such  a  clattering  noise  that  the  Japanese 
bonze  rode  at  them  on  his  monster  and  knocked  them 
both  right  over,  and  they  lay  straight  and  still,  looking 
foolish,  and  the  little  Nymphenburg  maid,  though  she 
was  crying,  smiled  and  almost  laughed. 

Then  from  where  the  great  stove  stood  there  came  a 
solemn  voice. 

All  eyes  turned  upon  Hirschvogel,  and  the  heart  of 
its  little  human  comrade  gave  a  great  jump  of  joy. 

"  My  friends,"  said  that  clear  voice  from  the  turret 
of  Niirnberg  faience,  "  I  have  listened  to  all  you  have 
said.  There  is  too  much  talking  among  the  Mortalities 
whom  one  of  themselves  has  called  the  \yindbags. 
Let  not  us  be  like  them.  I  hear  among  men  so  much 
vain  speech,  so  much  precious  breath  and  precious  time 
wasted  in  empty  boasts,  foolish  anger,  useless  reitera- 
tion, blatant  argument,  ignoble  mouthings,  that  I  have 
learned  to  deem  speech  a  curse,  laid  on  man  to  weaken 


TEE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  59 

and  envenom  all  his  undertakings.  For  over  two 
hundred  years  I  have  never  spoken  myself:  you,  I 
hear,  are  not  so  reticent.  I  only  speak  now  because 
one  of  you  said  a  beautiful  thing  that  touched  me.  If 
we  all  might  but  go  back  to  our  makers !  Ah,  yes ! 
if  we  might !  We  were  made  in  days  when  even  men 
were  true  creatures,  and  so  we,  the  work  of  their  hands, 
were  true  too.  We,  the  begotten  of  ancient  days,  de- 
rive all  the  value  in  us  from  the  fact  that  our  makers 
wrought  at  us  with  zeal,  with  piety,  with  integrity, 
with  faith, — not  to  win  fortunes  or  to  glut  a  market, 
but  to  do  nobly  an  honest  thing  and  create  for  the 
honor  of  the  Arts  and  God.  I  see  amidst  you  a  little 
human  thing  who  loves  me,  and  in  his  own  ignorant 
childish  way  loves  Art.  Now,  I  want  him  forever  to 
remember  this  night  and  these  words;  to  remember 
that  we  are  what  we  are,  and  precious  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  because  centuries  ago  those  who  were  of 
single  mind  and  of  pure  hand  so  created  us,  scorning 
sham  and  haste  and  counterfeit.  Well  do  I  recollect 
my  master,  Augustin  Hirschvogel.  He  led  a  wise  and 
blameless  life,  and  wrought  in  loyalty  and  love,  and 
made  his  time  beautiful  thereby,  like  one  of  his  own 
rich,  many-colored  church  casements,  that  told  holy 
tales  as  the  sun  streamed  through  them.  Ah,  yes,  my 
friends,  to  go  back  to  our  masters ! — that  would  be  the 
best  that  could  befall  us.  But  they  are  gone,  and  even 
the  perishable  labors  of  their  lives  outlive  them.  For 
many,  many  years  I,  once  honored  of  emperors,  dwelt 
in  a  humble  house  and  warmed  in  successive  winters 
three  generations  of  little,  cold,  hungry  children. 
When  I  warmed  them   they  forgot  that  they   were 


60  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

hungry ;  they  laughed  and  told  tales,  and  slept  at  last 
about  my  feet.  Then  I  knew  that  humble  as  had 
become  my  lot  it  was  one  that  my  master  would  have 
wished  for  me,  and  I  was  content.  Sometimes  a  tired 
woman  would  creep  up  to  me,  and  smile  because  she 
was  near  me,  and  point  out  my  golden  crown  or  my 
ruddy  fruit  to  a  baby  in  her  arms.  That  was  better 
than  to  stand  in  a  great  hall  of  a  great  city,  cold  and 
empty,  even  though  wise  men  came  to  gaze  and  throngs 
of  fools  gaped,  passing  with  flattering  words.  Where 
I  go  now  I  know  not ;  but  since  I  go  from  that  humble 
house  where  they  loved  me,  I  shall  be  sad  and  alone. 
They  pass  so  soon, — those  fleeting  mortal  lives !  Only 
we  endure, — we,  the  things  that  the  human  brain  creates. 
We  can  but  bless  them  a  little  as  they  glide  by :  if  we 
have  done  that,  we  have  done  what  our  masters  wished. 
So  in  us  our  masters,  being  dead,  yet  may  speak  and 
live." 

Then  the  voice  sank  away  in  silence,  and  a  strange 
golden  light  that  had  shone  on  the  great  stove  faded 
away ;  so  also  the  light  died  down  in  the  silver  cande- 
labra. A  soft,  pathetic  melody  stole  gently  through 
the  room.  It  came  from  the  old,  old  spinnet  that  was 
covered  with  the  faded  roses. 

Then  that  sad,  sighing  music  of  a  bygone  day  died 
too ;  the  clocks  of  the  city  struck  six  of  the  morning ; 
day  was  rising  over  the  Bayerischenwald.  August 
awoke  with  a  great  start,  and  found  himself  lying  on 
the  bare  bricks  of  the  floor  of  the  chamber,  and  all  the 
brio-ci-brao  was  lying  quite  still  all  around.  The 
pretty  Lady  of  Meissen  was  motionless  on  her  porcelain 
bracket,  and  the  little  Saxe  poodle  was  quiet  at  her  side. 


THE  NURNBERG   STOVE,  Ql 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  was  very  cold,  but 
he  was  not  sensible  of  it  or  of  the  hunger  that  was 
gnawing  his  little  empty  entrails.  He  was  absorbed 
in  the  wondrous  sight,  in  the  wondrous  sounds,  that 
he  had  seen  and  heard. 

All  was  dark  around  him.  Was  it  still  midnight  or 
had  morning  come  ?  Morning,  surely ;  for  against  the 
barred  shutters  he  heard  the  tiny  song  of  the  robin. 

Tramp,  tramp,  too,  came  a  heavy  step  up  the  stair. 
He  had  but  a  moment  in  which  to  scramble  back  into 
the  interior  of  the  great  stove,  when  the  door  opened 
and  the  two  dealers  entered,  bringing  burning  candles 
with  them  to  see  their  way. 

August  was  scarcely  conscious  of  danger  more  than 
he  was  of  cold  or  hunger.  A  marvellous  sense  of 
courage,  of  security,  of  happiness,  was  about  him,  like 
strong  and  gentle  arms  enfolding  him  and  lifting  him 
upwards — upwards — upwards  !  Hirschvogel  would 
defend  him. 

The  dealers  undid  the  shutters,  scaring  the  red- 
breast away,  and  then  tramped  about  in  their  heavy 
boots  and  chattered  in  contented  voices,  and  began  to 
wrap  up  the  stove  once  more  in  all  its  straw  and  hay 
and  cordage. 

It  never  once  occurred  to  them  to  glance  inside. 
Why  should  they  look  inside  a  stove  that  they  had 
bought  and  were  about  to  sell  again  for  all  its  glorious 
beauty  of  exterior? 

The  child  still  did  not  feel  afraid.  A  great  exal- 
tation had  come  to  him :  he  was  like  one  lifted  up  by 
his  angels. 

Presently  the  two  traders  called  up  their  porters, 


62  THE  NURNBERG   STOVE. 

and  the  stove,  heedfully  swathed  and  wrapped  and 
tended  as  though  it  were  some  sick  prince  going  on  a 
journey,  was  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  six  stout  Ba- 
varians down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  door  into  the 
Marienplatz.  Even  behind  all  those  wrappings  August 
felt  the  icy  bite  of  the  intense  cold  of  the  outer  air  at 
dawn  of  a  winter's  day  in  Munich.  The  men  moved 
the  stove  with  exceeding  gentleness  and  care,  so  that 
he  had  often  been  far  more  roughly  shaken  in  his  big 
brothers'  arras  than  he  was  in  his  journey  now ;  and 
though  both  hunger  and  thirst  made  themselves  felt, 
being  foes  that  will  take  no  denial,  he  was  still  in  that 
state  of  nervous  exaltation  which  deadens  all  physical 
suffering  and  is  at  once  a  cordial  and  an  opiate.  He 
had  heard  Hirschvogel  speak ;  that  was  enough. 

The  stout  carriers  tramped  through  the  city,  six  of 
them,  with  the  Niirnberg  fire-castle  on  their  brawny 
shoulders,  and  went  right  across  Munich  to  the  rail- 
way-station, and  August  in  the  dark  recognized  all 
the  ugly,  jangling,  pounding,  roaring,  hissing  railway- 
noises,  and  thought,  despite  his  courage  and  excitement, 
"  Will  it  be  a  very  long  journey  ?"  For  his  stomach 
had  at  times  an  odd  sinking  sensation,  and  his  head 
sadly  often  felt  light  and  swimming.  If  it  was  a  very, 
very  long  journey  he  felt  half  afraid  that  he  would  bo 
dead  or  something  bad  before  the  end,  and  Hirsch- 
vogel would  be  so  lonely  :  that  was  what  he  thought 
most  about ;  not  much  about  himself,  and  not  much 
about  Dorothea  and  the  house  at  home.  He  was 
"high  strung  to  high  emprise,"  and  could  not  look 
behind  him. 

Whether  for  a  long  or  a  short  journey,  whether  for 


THE  NURNBERO  STOVE.  63 

weal  or  woe,  the  stove  with  August  still  within  it  was 
once  more  hoisted  up  into  a  great  van;  but  this  time  it 
was  not  all  alone,  and  the  two  dealers  as  well  as  the 
six  porters  were  all  with  it. 

He  in  his  darkness  knew  that;  for  he  heard  theii 
voices.  The  train  glided  away  over  the  Bavarian 
plain  southward;  and  he  heard  the  men  say  some- 
thing of  Berg  and  the  Wurm-See,  but  their  German 
was  strange  to  him,  and  he  could  not  make  out  what 
these  names  meant. 

The  train  rolled  on,  with  all  its  fume  and  fuss,  and 
roar  of  steam,  and  stench  of  oil  and  burning  coal.  It 
had  to  go  quietly  and  slowly  on  account  of  the  snow 
which  was  falling,  and  which  had  fallen  all  night. 

"  He  might  have  waited  till  he  came  to  the  city," 
grumbled  one  man  to  another.  ^' What  weather  to 
stay  on  at  Berg !" 

But  who  he  was  that  stayed  on  at  Berg,  August 
could  not  make  out  at  all. 

Though  the  men  grumbled  about  the  state  of  the 
roads  and  the  season,  they  were  hilarious  and  well  con- 
tent, for  they  laughed  often,  and,  when  they  swore,  did 
so  good-humoredly,  and  promised  their  porters  fine 
presents  at  New- Year;  and  August,  like  a  shrewd 
little  boy  as  he  was,  who  even  in  the  secluded  Innthal 
had  learned  that  money  is  the  chief  mover  of  men's 
mirth,  thought  to  himself,  with  a  terrible  pang, — 

"  They  have  sold  Hirschvogel  for  some  great  sura ' 
They  have  sold  him  already  !" 

Then  his  heart  grew  faint  and  sick  within  him,  for 
he  knew  very  well  that  he  must  soon  die,  shut  up 
without  food  and  water  thus ;  and  what  new  owner  of 


64  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

the  great  fire-palace  would  ever  permit  him  to  dwell 
in  it? 

"Never  mind;  I  will  die"  thought  he;  "and  Hirsch- 
vogel  will  know  it." 

Perhaps  you  think  him  a  very  foolish  little  fellow; 
but  I  do  not. 

It  is  always  good  to  be  loyal  and  ready  to  endure  to 
the  end. 

It  is  but  an  hour  and  a  quarter  that  the  train  usually 
takes  to  pass  from  Munich  to  the  Wurm-See  or  Lake 
of  Starnberg;  but  this  morning  the  journey  was  much 
slower,  because  the  way  was  encumbered  by  snow. 
When  it  did  reach  Possenhofen  and  stop,  and  the 
Niirnberg  stove  was  lifted  out  once  more,  August 
could  see  through  the  fret- work  of  the  brass  door,  as 
the  stove  stood  upright  facing  the  lake,  that  this 
Wurm-See  was  a  calm  and  noble  piece  of  water,  of 
great  width,  with  low  wooded  banks  and  distant  moun- 
tains, a  peaceful,  serene  place,  full  of  rest. 

It  was  now  near  ten  o'clock.  The  sun  had  come 
forth ;  there  was  a  clear  gray  sky  hereabouts ;  the  snow 
was  not  falling,  though  it  lay  white  and  smooth  every- 
where, down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  which  before 
long  would  itself  be  ice. 

Before  he  had  time  to  get  more  than  a  glimpse  of 
the  green  gliding  surface,  the  stove  was  again  lifted 
up  and  placed  on  a  large  boat  that  was  in  waiting, — 
cue  of  those  very  long  and  huge  boats  which  the 
women  in  these  parts  use  as  laundries,  and  the  men  as 
timber-rafts.  The  stove,  with  much  labor  and  muv.h 
expenditure  of  time  and  care,  was  hoisted  into  this, 
and  August  would  have  grown  sick  and  giddy  with 


THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE.  65 

the  heaving  and  falling  if  his  big  brothers  had  not 
long  used  him  to  such  tossing  about,  so  that  he  was  as 
much  at  ease  head,  as  feet,  downward.  The  stove 
once  in  it  safely  with  its  guardians,  the  big  boat  moved 
across  the  lake  to  Leoni.  How  a  little  hamlet  on  a 
Bavarian  lake  got  that  Tuscan-sounding  name  I  can- 
not tell;  but  Leoni  it  is.  The  big  boat  was  a  long 
time  crossing:  the  lake  here  is  about  three  miles  broad, 
and  these  heavy  barges  are  unwieldy  and  heavy  to 
move,  even  though  they  are  towed  and  tugged  at  from 
the  shore. 

^'  If  we  should  be  too  late !"  the  two  dealers  mut- 
tered to  each  other,  in  agitation  and  alarm.  "  He  said 
eleven  o'clock." 

"Who  was  he?"  thought  August;  "the  buyer,  of 
course,  of  Hirschvogel."  The  slow  passage  across  the 
Wurm-See  was  accomplished  at  length :  the  lake  was 
placid ;  there  was  a  sweet  calm  in  the  air  and  on  the 
water;  there  was  a  great  deal  of  snow  in  the  sky, 
though  the  sun  was  shining  and  gave  a  solemn  hush 
to  the  atmosphere.  Boats  and  one  little  steamer  were 
going  up  and  down ;  in  the  clear  frosty  light  the  dis- 
tant mountains  of  Zillerthal  and  the  Algau  Alps  were 
visible ;  market-people,  cloaked  and  furred,  went  by  on 
the  water  or  on  the  banks;  the  deep  woods  of  the 
shores  were  black  and  gray  and  brown.  Poor  August 
could  see  nothing  of  a  scene  that  would  have  delighted 
him ;  as  the  stove  was  now  set,  he  could  only  see  the 
old  worm-eaten  wood  of  the  huge  barge. 

Presently  they  touched  the  pier  at  Leoni. 

"Now,  men,  for  a  stout  mile  and  half!  You  shall 
drink  your  reward  at  Christmas-time,"  said  one  of  the 
«  6* 


QQ  THE   NURNBERG  STOVE. 

dealers  to  his  porters,  who,  stout,  strong  men  as  they 
were,  showed  a  disposition  to  grumble  at  their  task. 
Encouraged  by  large  promises,  they  shouldered  sullenly 
the  Niirnberg  stove,  grumbling  again  at  its  preposterous 
weight,  but  little  dreaming  that  they  carried  within  it  a 
small,  panting,  trembling  boy;  for  August  began  to 
tremble  now  that  he  was  about  to  see  the  future  owner 
of  Hirschvogel. 

"If  he  look  a  good,  kind  man,"  he  thought,  "I  will 
beg  him  to  let  me  stay  with  it." 

The  porters  began  their  toilsome  journey,  and  moved 
off  from  the  village  pier.  He  could  see  nothing,  for 
the  brass  door  was  over  his  head,  and  all  that  gleamed 
through  it  was  the  clear  gray  sky.  He  had  been  tilted 
on  to  his  back,  and  if  he  had  not  been  a  little  moun- 
taineer, used  to  hanging  head-downwards  over  crevasses, 
and,  moreover,  seasoned  to  rough  treatment  by  the 
hunters  and  guides  of  the  hills  and  the  salt-workers  in 
the  town,  he  would  have  been  made  ill  and  sick  by  the 
bruising  and  shaking  and  many  changes  of  position  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected. 

The  way  the  men  took  was  a  mile  and  a  half  in 
length,  but  the  road  was  heavy  with  snow,  and  the 
burden  they  bore  was  heavier  still.  The  dealers 
cheered  them  on,  swore  at  them  and  praised  them  in 
one  breath ;  besought  them  and  reiterated  their  splen- 
did promises,  for  a  clock  was  striking  eleven,  and  they 
had  been  ordered  to  reach  their  destination  at  that 
hour,  and,  though  the  air  was  so  cold,  the  heat-drops 
rolled  oif  their  foreheads  as  they  walked,  they  were  so 
frightened  at  being  late.  But  the  porters  would  not 
budge  a  foot  quicker  than  they  chose,  and  as  they  were 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  Q'J 

not  poor  four-footed  carriers  their  employers  dared 
not  thrash  them,  though  most  wilHugly  would  they 
have  done  so. 

The  road  seemed  terribly  long  to  the  anxious  trades- 
men, to  the  plodding  porters,  to  the  poor  little  man  in- 
side the  stove,  as  he  kept  sinking  and  rising,  sinking 
and  rising,  with  each  of  their  steps. 

Where  they  were  going  he  had  no  idea,  only  after 
a  very  long  time  he  lost  the  sense  of  the  fresh  icy  wind 
blowing  on  his  face  through  the  brass-work  above,  and 
felt  by  their  movements  beneath  him  that  they  were 
mounting  steps  or  stairs.  Then  he  heard  a  great  many 
different  voices,  but  he  could  not  understand  what  was 
being  said.  He  felt  that  his  bearers  paused  some  time, 
<;hen  moved  on  and  on  again.  Their  feet  went  so  softly 
he  thought  they  must  be  moving  on  carpet,  and  as  he 
felt  a  warm  air  come  to  him  he  concluded  that  he  was 
in  some  heated  chambers,  for  he  was  a  clever  little  fel- 
low, and  could  put  two  and  two  together,  though  he 
was  so  hungry  and  so  thirsty  and  his  empty  stomach 
felt  so  strangely.  They  must  have  gone,  he  thought, 
through  some  very  great  number  of  rooms,  for  they 
walked  so  long  on  and  on,  on  and  on.  At  last  the 
stove  was  set  down  again,  and,  happily  for  him,  set  so 
that  his  feet  were  downward. 

What  he  fancied  was  that  he  was  in  some  museum, 
like  that  which  he  had  seen  in  the  city  of  Innspruck. 

The  voices  he  heard  were  very  hushed,  and  the  steps 
seemed  to  go  away,  far  away,  leaving  him  alone  with 
Hirschvogel.  He  dared  not  look  out,  but  he  peeped 
through  the  brass-work,  and  all  he  could  see  was  a  big 
carved  lion's  head  in  ivory,  with  a  gold  crown  atop.   It 


68  THE  NURNBERG  STOVE. 

belonged  to  a  velvet  fauteuil,  but  he  could  not  see  the 
chair,  only  the  ivory  lion. 

There  was  a  delicious  fragrance  in  the  air, — a  fra- 
grance as  of  flowers.  "  Only  how  can  it  be  flowers  ?" 
thought  August.     "  It  is  November !" 

From  afar  oflF,  as  it  seemed,  there  came  a  dreamy, 
exquisite  music,  as  sweet  as  the  spinnet's  had  been,  but 
so  much  fuller,  so  much  richer,  seeming  as  though  a 
chorus  of  angels  were  singing  all  together.  August 
ceased  to  think  of  the  museum :  he  thought  of  heaven. 
"Are  we  gone  to  the  Master?"  he  thought,  remembering 
the  words  of  Hirschvogel. 

All  was  so  still  around  him;  there  was  no  sound 
anywhere  except  the  sound  of  the  far-off  choral  music. 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  he  was  in  the  royal  castle 
of  Berg,  and  the  music  he  heard  was  the  music  of 
Wagner,  who  was  playing  in  a  distant  room  some  of 
the  motives  of  "Parsival." 

Presently  he  heard  a  fresh  step  near  him,  and  he 
heard  a  low  voice  say,  close  behind  him,  "  So !"  An 
exclamation  no  doubt,  he  thought,  of  admiration  and 
wonder  at  the  beauty  of  Hirschvogel. 

Then  the  same  voice  said,  after  a  long  pause,  during 
which  no  doubt,  as  August  thought,  this  new-comer 
was  examining  all  the  details  of  the  wondrous  fire- 
tower,  "It  was  well  bought;  it  is  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful !  It  is  most  undoubtedly  the  work  of  Augustin 
Hirschvogel." 

Then  the  hand  of  the  speaker  turned  the  round 
handle  of  the  brass  door,  and  the  fainting  soul  of  the 
poor  little  prisoner  within  grew  sick  with  fear. 

The  handle  turned,  the  door  was  slowly  drawn  open, 


THE  NURNBERQ   STOVE.  69 

8ome  one  bent  down  and  looked  in,  and  the  same  voice 
that  he  had  heard  in  praise  of  its  beauty  called  aloud, 
in  surprise,  "  What  is  this  in  it?     A  live  child  !" 

Then  August,  terrified  beyond  all  self-control,  and 
dominated  by  one  master-passion,  sprang  out  of  the 
body  of  the  stove  and  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  speaker. 

"  Oh,  let  me  stay  !  Pray,  meinherr,  let  me  stay  !" 
he  sobbed.  "  I  have  come  all  the  way  with  Hirsch- 
vogel!" 

Some  gentlemen^s  hands  seized  him,  not  gently  by 
any  means,  and  their  lips  angrily  muttered  in  his  ear, 
"  Little  knave,  peace !  be  quiet !  hold  your  tongue ! 
It  is  the  king !" 

They  were  about  to  drag  him  out  of  the  august  at- 
mosphere as  if  he  had  been  some  venomous,  dangerous 
beast  come  there  to  slay,  but  the  voice  he  had  heard 
speak  of  the  stove  said,  in  kind  accents,  "  Poor  little 
child !  he  is  very  young.  Let  him  go  :  let  him  speak 
to  me." 

The  word  of  a  king  is  law  to  his  courtiers :  so,  sorely 
against  their  wish,  the  angry  and  astonished  chamber- 
lains let  August  slide  out  of  their  grasp,  and  he 
stood  there  in  his  little  rough  sheepskin  coat  and  his 
thick,  mud-covered  boots,  with  his  curling  hair  all  in 
a  tangle,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  beautiful  chamber  he 
had  ever  dreamed  of,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  young 
man  with  a  beautiful  dark  face,  and  eyes  full  of  dreams 
and  fire ;  and  the  young  man  said  to  him, — 

"My  child,  how  came  you  here,  hidden  in  this 
stove  ?  Be  not  afraid :  tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  the 
king." 

August  in   an    instinct  of   homage   cast  his  great 


70  THE  N  URN  BERG  STOVE. 

battered  black  hat  with  the  tarnished  gold  tassels  down 
on  the  floor  of  the  room,  and  folded  his  little  brown 
hands  in  supplication.  He  was  too  intensely  in  earnest 
to  be  in  any  way  abashed ;  he  was  too  lifted  out  of 
himself  by  his  love  for  Hirschvogel  to  be  conscious  of 
any  awe  before  any  earthly  majesty.  He  was  only  so 
glad — so  glad  it  was  the  king.  Kings  were  always 
kind ;  so  the  Tyrolese  think,  who  love  their  lords. 

"  Oh,  dear  king !"  he  said,  with  trembling  entreaty 
in  his  faint  little  voice,  "  Hirschvogel  was  ours,  and  we 
have  loved  it  all  our  lives ;  and  father  sold  it.  And 
when  I  saw  that  it  did  really  go  from  us,  then  I  said 
to  myself  I  would  go  with  it ;  and  I  have  come  all  the 
way  inside  it.  And  last  night  it  spoke  and  said  beauti- 
ful things.  And  I  do  pray  you  to  let  me  live  with  it, 
and  I  will  go  out  every  morning  and  cut  wood  for  it 
and  you,  if  only  you  will  let  me  stay  beside  it.  No 
one  ever  has  fed  it  with  fuel  but  me  since  I  grew  big 
enough,  and  it  loves  me ; — it  does  indeed ;  it  said  so 
last  night ;  and  it  said  that  it  had  been  happier  with  us 
than  if  it  were  in  any  palace " 

And  then  his  breath  failed  him,  and,  as  he  lifted  his 
little,  eager,  pale  face  to  the  young  king's,  great  tears 
were  falling  down  his  cheeks. 

Now,  the  king  likes  all  poetic  and  uncommon  things, 
and  there  was  that  in  the  child's  face  which  pleased  and 
touched  him.  He  motioned  to  his  gentlemen  to  leave 
the  little  boy  alone. 

"  What  IS  your  name?"  he  asked  him. 

"  I  am  August  Strehla.  My  father  is  Hans  Strehla. 
We  live  in  Hall,  in  the  Innthal ;  and  Hirschvogel  has 
been  ours  so  long, — so  long !" 


THE  nVrNBERO   stove.  71 

His  lips  quivered  with  a  broken  sob. 

"  And  have  you  truly  travelled  inside  this  stove  all 
the  way  from  Tyrol  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  August ;  "  no  one  thought  to  look  inside 
till  you  did. 

The  king  laughed ;  then  another  view  of  the  matter 
occurred  to  him. 

"Who  bought  the  stove  of  your  father?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Traders  of  Munich/'  said  August,  who  did  not  know 
that  he  ought  not  to  have  spoken  to  the  king  as  to  a 
simple  citizen,  and  whose  little  brain  was  whirling  and 
spinning  dizzily  round  its  one  central  idea. 

"  What  sum  did  they  pay  your  father,  do  you  know  ?" 
asked  the  sovereign. 

"  Two  hundred  florins,"  said  August,  with  a  great 
sigh  of  shame.  "  It  was  so  much  money,  and  he  is  so 
poor,  and  there  are  so  many  of  us." 

The  king  turned  to  his  geutlemen-in-waiting.  "  Did 
these  dealers  of  Munich  come  with  the  stove." 

He  was  answered  in  the  affirmative.  He  desired 
them  to  be  sought  for  and  brought  before  him.  As  one 
of  his  chamberlains  hastened  on  the  errand,  the  monarch 
looked  at  August  with  compassion. 

"  You  are  very  pale,  little  fellow  :  when  did  you  eat 
last?" 

"  I  had  some  bread  and  sausage  with  me ;  yesterday 
afternoon  I  finished  it." 

"  You  would  like  to  eat  now  ?" 

"  If  I  might  have  a  little  water  I  would  be  glad ; 
my  throat  is  very  dry." 

The  king  had  water  and  wine  brought  for  him,  and 


72  THE  NVRNBERQ  STOVE. 

cake  also ;  but  August,  though  he  drank  eagerly,  could 
not  swallow  anything.  His  mind  was  in  too  great  a 
tumult. 

"  May  I  stay  with  Hirschvogel  ? — may  I  stay  ?"  he 
said,  with  feverish  agitation. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  the  king,  and  asked,  abruptly, 
"  What  do  you  wish  to  be  when  you  are  a  man  ?" 

"A  painter.  I  wish  to  be  what  Hirschvogel  was, — 
I  mean  the  master  that  made  my  Hirschvogel." 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  king. 

Then  the  two  dealers  were  brought  into  their  sover- 
eign's presence.  They  were  so  terribly  alarmed,  not 
being  either  so  innocent  or  so  ignorant  as  August  was, 
that  they  were  trembling  as  though  they  were  being  led 
to  the  slaughter,  and  they  were  so  utterly  astonished 
too  at  a  child  having  come  all  the  way  from  Tyrol  in 
the  stove,  as  a  gentleman  of  the  court  had  just  told 
them  this  child  had  done,  that  they  could  not  tell  what 
to  say  or  where  to  look,  and  presented  a  very  foolish 
aspect  indeed. 

"Did  you  buy  this  Niirnberg  stove  of  this  little 
boy's  father  for  two  hundred  florins  ?"  the  king  asked 
them ;  and  his  voice  was  no  longer  soft  and  kind  as  it 
had  been  when  addressing  the  child,  but  very  stern. 

"Yes,  your  majesty,"  murmured  the  trembling 
traders. 

"  And  how  much  did  the  gentleman  who  purchased 
it  for  me  give  to  you  ?" 

"  Two  thousand  ducats,  your  majesty,"  muttered  the 
dealers,  frightened  out  of  their  wits,  and  telling  the 
truth  in  their  fright. 

The  gentleman  was  not  present:  he  was  a  trusted 


THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.  73 

counsellor  in  art  matters  of  the  king's,  and  often  made 
purchases  for  him. 

The  king  smiled  a  little,  and  said  nothing.  The 
gentleman  had  made  out  the  price  to  him  as  eleven 
thousand  ducats. 

"  You  will  give  at  once  to  this  boy's  father  the  two 
thousand  gold  ducats  that  you  received,  less  the  two 
hundred  Austrian  florins  that  you  paid  him,"  said  the 
king  to  his  humiliated  and  abject  subjects.  "  You  are 
great  rogues.  Be  thankful  you  are  not  more  greatly 
punished." 

He  dismissed  them  by  a  sign  to  his  courtiers,  and  to 
one  of  these  gave  the  mission  of  making  the  dealers 
of  the  Marienplatz  disgorge  their  ill-gotten  gains. 

August  heard,  and  felt  dazzled  yet  miserable.  Two 
thousand  gold  Bavarian  ducats  for  his  father !  Why, 
his  father  would  never  need  to  go  any  more  to  the  salt- 
baking  !  And  yet,  whether  for  ducats  or  for  florins, 
Hirschvogel  was  sold  just  the  same,  and  would  the 
king  let  him  stay  with  it? — would  he? 

"  Oh,  do !  oh,  please  do !"  he  murmured,  joining  his 
little  brown  weather-stained  hands,  and  kneeling  down 
before  the  young  monarch,  who  himself  stood  absorbed 
in  painful  thought,  for  the  deception  so  basely  practised 
for  the  greedy  sake  of  gain  on  him  by  a  trusted  coun- 
sellor was  bitter  to  him. 

He  looked  down  on  the  child,  and  as  he  did  so 
smiled  once  more. 

"Rise  up,  my  little  man,"  he  said,  in  a  kind  voice; 

"  kneel  only  to  your  God.     Will  I  let  you  stay  with 

your  Hirschvogel  ?     Yes,  I  will ;  you  shall  stay  at  my 

court,  and  you  shall  be  taught  to  be  a  painter, — in  oils 

D  7 


74  THE  NVRNBERG  STOVE. 

or  on  porcelain  as  you  will, — and  you  must  grow  up 
worthily,  and  win  all  the  laurels  at  our  Schools  of  Art, 
and  if  when  you  are  twenty-one  years  old  you  have 
done  well  and  bravely,  then  I  will  give  you  your 
Nurnberg  stove,  or,  if  I  am  no  more  living,  then  those 
who  reign  after  me  shall  do  so.  And  now  go  away 
with  this  gentleman,  and  be  not  afraid,  and  you  shall 
light  a  fire  every  morning  in  Hirschvogel,  but  you  will 
not  need  to  go  out  and  cut  the  wood." 

Then  he  smiled  and  stretched  out  his  hand;  the 
courtiers  tried  to  make  August  understand  that  he 
ought  to  bow  and  touch  it  with  his  lips,  but  August 
could  not  understand  that  anyhow ;  he  was  too  happy. 
He  threw  his  two  arms  about  the  king's  knees,  and 
kissed  his  feet  passionately ;  then  he  lost  all  sense  of 
where  he  was,  and  fainted  away  from  hunger,  and  tire, 
and  emotion,  and  wondrous  joy. 

As  the  darkness  of  his  swoon  closed  in  on  him, 
he  heard  in  his  fancy  the  voice  from  Hirschvogel 
saying,— 

"  Let  us  be  worthy  our  maker !" 

He  is  only  a  scholar  yet,  but  he  is  a  happy  scholar, 
and  promises  to  be  a  great  man.  Sometimes  he  goes 
back  for  a  few  days  to  Hall,  where  the  gold  ducats 
have  made  his  father  prosperous.  In  the  old  house- 
room  there  is  a  large  white  porcelain  stove  of  Munich, 
the  king's  gift  to  Dorothea  and  'Gilda. 

And  August  never  goes  home  without  going  into 
the  great  church  and  saying  his  thanks  to  God,  who 
blessed  his  strange  winter's  journey  in  the  Niirnberg 
stove.  As  for  his  dream  in  the  dealers'  room  that 
night,  he  will  never  admit  that  he  did  dream  it ;  he 


IE    NUKNBERG    STOVE. 


THE  NURNBERQ  STOVE.  75 

still  declares  that  he  saw  it  all,  and  heard  the  voice  of 
Hirschvogel.  And  who  shall  say  that  he  did  not  ?  for 
what  is  the  gift  of  the  poet  and  the  artist  except  to  see 
fche  sights  which  others  cannot  see  and  to  hear  the  sounds 
that  others  cannot  hear  ? 


THE    AMBITIOUS    ROSE-TREE. 


She  was  a  Qiiatre  Saison  Rose-tree. 

She  lived  in  a  beautiful  old  garden  with  some  charm- 
ing magnolias  for  neighbors:  they  rather  overshadowed 
her,  certainly,  because  they  were  so  very  great  and 
grand ;  but  then  such  shadow  as  that  is  preferable,  as 
every  one  knows,  to  a  mere  vulgar  enjoyment  of  com- 
mon daylight,  and  then  the  beetles  went  most  to  the 
magnolia-blossoms,  for  being  so  great  and  grand  of 
course  they  got  very  much  preyed  upon,  and  this  was 
a  vast  gain  for  the  rose  that  was  near  them.  She  her- 
self leaned  against  the  wall  of  an  orange-house,  in 
company  with  a  Banksia,  a  buoyant,  active,  simple- 
minded  thing,  for  whom  Rosa  Damascena,  who  thought 
herself  much  better  born  than  these  climbers,  had  a 
natural  contempt.  Banksise  will  flourish  and  be  con- 
tent anywhere,  they  are  such  easily-pleased  creatures ; 
and  when  you  cut  them  they  thrive  on  it,  which  shows 
a  very  plebeian  and  pachydermatous  temper ;  and  they 
laugh  all  over  in  the  face  of  an  April  day,  shaking 
their  little  golden  clusters  of  blossom  in  such  a  merry 
way  that  the  Rose-tree,  who  was  herself  very  reserved 
and  thorny,  had  really  scruples  about  speaking  to  them. 

For  she  was  by  nature  extremely  proud. — much 
prouder  than  her  lineage  warranted, — and  a  hard  fate 
76 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  77 

had  fixed  her  to  the  wall  of  an  orangery,  where  hardly 
anybody  ever  came,  except  the  gardener  and  his  men 
to  carry  the  oranges  in  in  winter  and  out  in  spring, 
or  water  and  tend  them  while  they  were  housed  there. 

She  was  a  handsome  rose,  and  she  knew  it.  But 
the  garden  was  so  crowded — like  the  world — that  she 
could  not  get  herself  noticed  in  it.  In  vain  was  she 
radiant  and  red  close  on  to  Christmas-time  as  in  the 
fullest  heats  of  midsummer.  Nobody  thought  about 
her  or  praised  her.     She  pined  and  was  very  unhappy. 

The  Banksise,  who  are  little,  frank,  honest-hearted 
creatures,  and  say  out  what  they  think,  as  such  plebeian 
people  will,  used  to  tell  her  roundly  she  was  thankless 
for  the  supreme  excellence  of  her  lot. 

"  You  have  everything  the  soul  of  a  rose  can  wish 
for:  a  splendid  old  wall  with  no  nasty  chinks  in  it;  a 
careful  gardener,  who  nips  all  the  larvae  in  the  bud 
before  they  can  do  you  any  damage ;  sun,  water,  care ; 
above  all,  nobody  ever  cuts  a  single  blossom  off  you  ! 
What  more  can  you  wish  for  ?  This  orangery  is  para- 
dise!" 

She  did  not  answer. 

What  wounded  her  pride  so  deeply  was  just  this 
fact,  that  they  never  did  cut  off  any  of  her  blossoms. 
When  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  she  crowned  her- 
self with  her  rich  crimson  glory  and  no  one  ever  came 
nigh  to  behold  or  to  gather  it,  she  could  have  died 
with  vexation  and  humiliation. 

Would  nobody  see  she  was  worth  anything  ? 

The  truth  was  that  in  this  garden  there  was  such  an 
abundance  of  very  rare  roses  that  a  common  though 
beautiful  one  like  Rosa  Damascena  remained  unthought 
7* 


78  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

of;  she  was  lovely,  but  then  there  were  so  many  love- 
lier still,  or,  at  least,  much  more  h  la  mode. 

In  the  secluded  garden-corner  she  suffered  all  the 
agonies  of  a  pretty  woman  in  the  great  world,  who  is 
only  a  pretty  woman,  and  no  more.  It  needs  so  very 
much  more  to  be  "  somebody."  To  be  somebody  was 
what  Rosa  Damascena  sighed  for,  from  rosy  dawn  to 
rosier  sunset. 

From  her  wall  she  could  see  across  the  green  lawns, 
the  great  parterre  which  spread  before  the  house  ter- 
race, and  all  the  great  roses  that  bloomed  there, — 
Her  Majesty  Gloire  de  Dijon,  who  was  a  reigning 
sovereign  born,  the  royally-born  Niph^tos,  the  Prin- 
cesse  Adelaide,  the  Comtesse  Ouvaroff,  the  Vicomt- 
esse  de  Gazes  all  in  gold,  Madame  de  Sombreuil  in 
snowy  white,  the  beautiful  Louise  de  Savoie,  the  ex- 
quisite Duchess  of  Devon!  ensis, — all  the  roses  that 
were  great  ladies  in  their  own  right,  and  as  far  off 
her  as  were  the  stars  that  hung  in  heaven.  Rosa 
Damascena  would  have  given  all  her  brilliant  carna- 
tion hues  to  be  pale  and  yellow  like  the  Princesse 
Adelaide,  or  delicately  colorless  like  Her  Grace  of 
Devoniensis. 

She  tried  all  she  could  to  lose  her  own  warm  blushes, 
and  prayed  that  bees  might  sting  her  and  so  change 
her  hues;  but  the  bees  were  of  low  taste,  and  kept 
their  pearl-powder  and  rouge  and  other  pigments  for 
the  use  of  common  flowers,  like  the  evening  primrose 
or  the  buttercup  and  borage,  and  never  came  near  to 
do  her  any  good  in  arts  of  toilet. 

One  day  the  gardener  approached  and  stood  and 
looked  at  her :  then  all  at  once  she  felt  a  sharp  stab 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  79 

in  her  from  his  knife,  and  a  vivid  pain  ran  downward 
through  her  stem. 

She  did  not  know  it,  but  gardeners  and  gods  "  this 
way  grant  prayer." 

"Has  not  something  happened  to  me?"  she  asked 
of  the  little  Banksise ;  for  she  felt  very  odd  all  over 
her;  and  when  you  are  unwell  you  cannot  be  very 
haughty. 

The  saucy  Banksise  laughed,  running  over  their 
wires  that  they  cling  to  like  little  children. 

"  You  have  got  your  wish,"  they  said.  "  You  are 
going  to  be  a  great  lady ;  they  have  made  you  into  a 
Eosa  Indica !" 

A  tea-rose  !     Was  it  possible  ? 

Was  she  going  to  belong  at  last  to  that  grand  and 
graceful  order,  which  she  had  envied  so  long  and  vainly 
from  afar? 

Was  she,  indeed,  no  more  mere  simple  Rosa  Damas- 
cena?  She  felt  so  happy  she  could  hardly  breathe. 
She  thought  it  was  her  happiness  that  stifled  her ;  in 
real  matter  of  fact  it  was  the  tight  bands  in  which  the 
gardener  had  bound  her. 

"  Oh,  what  joy  !"  she  thought,  though  she  still  felt 
very  uncomfortable,  but  not  for  the  world  would  she 
ever  have  admitted  it  to  the  Banksiae. 

The  gardener  had  tied  a  tin  tube  on  to  her,  and  it 
was  heavy  and  cumbersome ;  but  no  doubt,  she  said, 
to  herself,  the  thing  was  fashionable,  so  she  bore  the 
burden  of  it  very  cheerfully. 

The  Banksise  asked  her  how  she  felt ;  but  she  would 
not  deign  even  to  reply ;  and  when  a  friendly  black- 
bird, who  had  often  picked  grubs  off  her  leaves,  came 


80  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

and  sang  to  her,  she  kept  silent :  a  Rosa  Indica  was 
far  above  a  blackbird. 

"  Next  time  you  want  a  caterpillar  taken  away,  he 
may  eat  you  for  me  /"  said  the  blackbird,  and  flew  off 
in  a  huff. 

She  was  very  ungrateful  to  hate  the  blackbird  so,  for 
he  had  been  most  useful  to  her  in  doing  to  death  all 
the  larvae  of  worms  and  beetles  and  caterpillars  and 
other  destroyers  which  were  laid  treacherously  within 
her  leaves.  The  good  blackbird,  with  many  another 
feathered  friend,  was  forever  at  work  in  some  good  deed 
of  the  kind,  and  all  the  good,  grateful  flowers  loved 
him  and  his  race.  But  to  this  terribly  proud  and 
discontented  Eosa  Damascena  he  had  been  a  bore, 
a  common  creature,  a  nuisance,  a  monster, — any  one 
of  these  things  by  turns,  and  sometimes  all  of  them 
altogether.     She  used  to  long  for  the  cat  to  get  him. 

"  You  ought  to  be  such  a  happy  rose !"  the  merle 
had  said  to  her,  one  day.  "  There  is  no  rose  so  strong 
and  healthy  as  you  are,  except  the  briers." 

And  from  that  day  she  had  hated  him.  The  idea 
of  naming  those  hedgerow  brier  roses  in  the  same 
breath  with  her! 

You  would  have  seen  in  that  moment  of  her  rage  a 
very  funny  sight  had  you  been  there;  nothing  less 
funny  than  a  rose-tree  trying  to  box  a  blackbird's  ears ! 

But,  to  be  sure,  you  would  only  have  thought  the 
wind  was  blowing  about  the  rose,  so  you  would  have 
seen  nothing  really  of  the  drollery  of  it  all,  which  was 
not  droll  at  all  to  Rosa  Damascena,  for  a  wound  in 
one's  vanity  is  as  long  healing  as  a  wound  from  a 
conical  bullet  in  one's  body.     The  blackbird  had  not 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  gj 

gone  near  her  after  that,  nor  any  of  his  relations  and 
friends,  and  she  had  had  a  great  many  shooting  and 
flying  pains  for  months  together,  in  consequence  of 
aphides'  eggs  having  been  laid  inside  her  stem, — eggs 
of  which  the  birds  would  have  eased  her  long  before  if 
they  had  not  been  driven  away  by  her  haughty  rage. 

However,  she  had  been  almost  glad  to  have  some 
ailment.  She  had  called  it  aneurism,  and  believed  it 
made  her  look  refined  and  interesting.  If  it  would 
only  have  made  her  pale  !  But  it  had  not  done  that : 
she  had  remained  of  the  richest  rose  color. 

When  the  winter  had  passed  and  the  summer  had 
come  round  again,  the  grafting  had  done  its  work : 
she  was  really  a  Rosa  Indica,  and  timidly  put  forth 
the  first  blossom  in  her  new  estate.  It  was  a  small, 
rather  puny  yellowish  thing,  not  to  be  compared  to  her 
own  natural  red  clusters,  but  she  thought  it  far  finer. 

Scarcely  had  it  been  put  forth  by  her  than  the  gar- 
dener whipped  it  off  with  his  knife,  and  bore  it  away 
in  proof  of  his  success  in  such  transmogrifications. 

She  had  never  felt  the  knife  before,  when  she  had 
been  only  Rosa  Damascena :  it  hurt  her  very  much, 
and  her  heart  bled. 

"  II  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle,"  said  the  Banksia) 
in  a  good-natured  effort  at  consolation.  She  was  not 
going  to  answer  them,  and  she  made  believe  that  her 
tears  were  only  dew,  though  it  was  high  noon  and  all 
the  dew-drops  had  been  drunk  by  the  sun,  who  by 
noon-time  gets  tired  of  climbing  and  grows  thirsty. 

Her  next  essay  was  much  finer,  and  the  knife 
whipped  that  off  also.  That  summer  she  bore  more 
and  more  blossoms,  and  always  the  knife  cut  them 
/ 


g2  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

away,  for  she  had  been  made  one  of  the  great  race  of 
Rosa  Indica. 

Now,  a  rose-tree,  when  a  blossom  is  chopped  or 
broken  off,  suffers  precisely  as  we  linman  mortals  do 
if  we  lose  a  finger;  but  the  rose-tree,  being  a  much 
more  perfect  and  delicate  handiwork  of  nature  than 
any  human  being,  has  a  faculty  we  have  not :  it  lives 
and  has  a  sentient  soul  in  every  one  of  its  roses,  and 
whatever  one  of  these  endures  the  tree  entire  endures 
also  by  sympathy.  You  think  this  very  wonderful? 
Not  at  all.  It  is  no  whit  more  wonderful  than  that  a 
lizard's  tail  chopped  off  runs  about  by  itself,  or  that  a 
dog  can  scent  a  foe  or  a  thief  whilst  the  foe  or  the  thief 
is  yet  miles  away.  All  these  things  are  most  wonder- 
ful, or  not  at  all  so, — -just  as  you  like. 

In  a  little  while  she  bore  another  child  :  this  time  it 
was  a  fine  fair  creature,  quite  perfect  in  its  hues  and 
shapes.  "I  never  saw  a  prettier!"  said  an  emperor 
butterfly,  pausing  near  for  a  moment;  at  that  moment 
the  knife  of  the  gardener  severed  the  rosebud's  stalk. 

"  The  lady  wants  one  for  her  bouquet  de  corsage : 
she  goes  to  the  o})era  to-night,"  the  man  said  to  another 
man,  as  he  took  the  young  tea-rose. 

"  What  is  the  opera  ?"  asked  the  mother-rose  wearily 
of  the  butterfly.  He  did  not  know ;  but  his  cousin  the 
death's-head  moth,  asleep  under  a  magnolia-leaf,  looked 
down  with  a  grim  smile  on  his  quaint  face. 

"It  is  where  everything  dies  in  ten  seconds,"  he 
answered.  "It  is  a  circle  of  fire;  many  friends  of 
mine  have  flown  in,  none  ever  returned  :  your  daughter 
will  shrivel  up  and  perish  miserably.  One  pays  for 
glory." 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  83 

The  rose-tree  shivered  through  all  her  stalks ;  but 
she  was  still  proud,  and  tried  to  think  that  all  this  was 
said  only  out  of  envy.  AVhat  should  an  old  death's- 
head  moth  know,  whose  eyes  were  so  weak  that  a  far- 
thing rushlight  blinded  them  ? 

So  she  lifted  herself  a  little  higher,  and  would  not 
even  see  that  the  Banksise  were  nodding  to  her;  and 
as  for  her  old  friend  the  blackbird,  how  vulgar  he 
looked,  bobbing  up  and  down  hunting  worms  and 
woodlice !  could  anything  be  more  outrageously  vulgar 
than  that  staring  yellow  beak  of  his?  She  twisted 
herself  round  not  to  see  him,  and  felt  quite  annoyed 
that  he  went  on  and  sang  just  the  same,  unconscious 
of,  or  indiiferent  to,  her  coldness. 

With  each  successive  summer  Rosa  Damascena  be- 
came more  integrally  and  absolutely  a  Rosa  Indica, 
and  suffered  in  proportion  to  her  fashion  and  fame. 

True,  people  came  continually  to  look  at  her,  and 
especially  in  May-time  would  cry  aloud,  "  What  a 
beautiful  Niph^tos !"  But  then  she  was  bereaved  of 
all  her  offspring,  for,  being  of  the  race  of  Niph^toa, 
they  were  precious,  and  one  would  go  to  die  in  an 
hour  in  a  hot  ball-room,  and  another  to  perish  in  a 
Sevres  vase,  where  the  china  indeed  was  exquisite  but 
the  water  was  foul,  and  others  went  to  be  suffocated  in 
the  vicious  gases  of  what  the  mortals  call  an  opera- 
box,  and  others  were  pressed  to  death  behind  hard 
diamonds  in  a  woman's  bosom  ;  in  one  way  or  another 
they  each  and  all  perished  miserably.  She  herself  also 
lost  many  of  her  once  luxuriant  leaves,  and  had  a  little 
scanty  foliage,  red-brown  in  summer,  instead  of  the 
thick,  dark-green  clothing  that  she  had  worn  when  a 


84  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

rustic  maiden.  Not  a  day  passed  but  the  knife  stabbed 
her;  when  the  knife  had  nothing  to  take  she  was 
barren  and  chilly,  for  she  had  lost  the  happy  power 
of  looking  beautiful  all  the  year  round,  which  once 
she  had  possessed. 

One  day  came  when  she  was  taken  up  out  of  the 
ground  and  borne  into  a  glass  house,  placed  in  a  large 
pot,  and  lifted  up  on  to  a  pedestal,  and  left  in  a  delicious 
atmosphere,  with  patrician  plants  all  around  her  with 
long  Latin  names,  and  strange,  rare  beauties  of  their 
own.  She  bore  bud  after  bud  in  this  crystal  temple, 
and  became  a  very  crown  of  blossom ;  and  her  spirit 
grew  so  elated,  and  her  vanity  so  supreme,  that  she 
ceased  to  remember  she  had  ever  been  a  simple  Rosa 
Damascena,  except  that  she  was  always  saying  to  her- 
self, "  How  great  I  am !  how  great  I  am  !"  which  she 
might  have  noticed  that  those  born  ladies,  the  Devoni- 
ensis  and  the  Louise  de  Savoie,  never  did.  But  she 
noticed  nothing  except  her  own  beauty,  which  she  could 
see  in  a  mirror  that  was  let  into  the  opposite  wall  of 
the  greenhouse.  Her  blossoms  were  many  and  all 
quite  perfect,  and  no  knife  touched  them ;  and  though 
to  be  sure  she  was  still  very  scantily  clothed  so  far  as 
foliage  went,  yet  she  was  all  the  more  fashionable  for 
that,  so  what  did  it  matter  ? 

One  day,  when  her  beauty  was  at  its  fullest  perfec- 
tion, she  heard  all  the  flowers  about  her  bending  and 
whispering  with  rustling  and  murmuring,  saying, 
"Who  will  be  chosen?  who  will  be  chosen?" 

Chosen  for  what? 

They  did  not  talk  much  to  her,  because  she  was  but 
a  new-comer  and  a  parvenue,  but  she  gathered  fr<  m 


TEE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  85 

them  In  a  little  time  that  there  was  to  be  a  ball  for  a 
marriage  festivity  at  the  house  to  which  the  greenhouse 
was  attached.  Each  flower  wondered  if  it  would  be 
chosen  to  go  to  it.  The  azaleas  knew  they  would  go, 
because  they  were  in  their  pink  or  rose  ball-dresses  all 
ready ;  but  no  one  else  was  sure.  The  rose-tree  grew 
quite  sick  and  faint  Math  hope  and  fear  Unless  she 
went,  she  felt  that  life  was  not  worth  the  living.  She 
had  no  idea  what  a  ball  might  be,  but  she  knew  that 
it  was  another  form  of  greatness,  when  she  was  all 
ready,  too,  and  so  beautiful ! 

The  gardener  came  and  sauntered  down  the  glass 
house,  glancing  from  one  to  another.  The  hearts  of 
all  beat  high.  The  azaleas  only  never  changed  color : 
they  were  quite  sure  of  themselves.  Who  could  do 
without  them  in  February  ? 

"  Oh,  take  me !  take  me !  take  me !"  prayed  the 
rose-tree,  in  her  foolish,  longing,  arrogant  heart. 

Her  wish  was  given  her.  The  lord  of  their  fates 
smiled  when  he  came  to  where  she  stood. 

"This  shall  be  for  the  place  of  honor,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  he  lifted  her  out  of  the  large  vase  she 
lived  in  on  to  a  trestle  and  summoned  his  boys  to  bear 
her  away.  The  very  azaleas  themselves  grew  pale  with 
envy. 

As  for  the  rose-tree  herself,  she  would  not  look  at 
any  one;  she  was  carried  through  the  old  garden 
straight  past  the  Banksise,  but  she  would  make  them 
no  sign ;  and  as  for  the  blackbird,  she  hoped  a  cat  had 
eaten  him !  Had  he  not  known  her  as  Rosa  Dama- 
scena  ? 

She    was    borne    bodily,   roots    and    all,    carefully 


86  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

wrapped  up  in  soft  matting,  and  taken  into  the  great 
house. 

It  was  a  very  great  house,  a  very  grand  house,  and 
there  was  to  be  a  marvellous  feast  in  it,  and  a  prince 
and  princess  from  over  the  seas  were  that  night  to 
honor  the  mistress  of  it  by  their  presence.  All  this 
Rosa  Indica  had  gathered  from  the  chatter  of  the 
flowers,  and  when  she  came  into  the  big  palace  she 
saw  many  signs  of  excitement  and  confusion  :  servants 
out  of  livery  were  running  up  against  one  another  in 
their  hurry-scurry;  miles  and  miles,  it  seemed,  of 
crimson  carpeting  were  being  unrolled  all  along  the 
terrace  and  down  the  terrace  steps,  since  by  some  pe- 
culiar but  general  impression  royal  personages  are  sup- 
posed not  to  like  to  walk  upon  anything  else,  though 
myself  I  think  they  must  get  quite  sick  of  red  carpet, 
seeing  so  very  much  of  it  spread  for  them  wherever 
they  go.  To  Rosa  Indica,  however,  the  bright  scarlet 
carpeting  looked  very  handsome,  and  seemed,  indeed, 
a  foretaste  of  heaven. 

Soon  she  was  carried  quite  inside  the  house,  into  an 
immense  room  with  a  beautiful  dome-shaped  ceiling, 
painted  in  fresco  three  centuries  before,  and  fresh  as 
though  it  had  been  painted  yesterday.  At  the  end 
of  the  room  was  a  great  chair,  gilded  and  painted, 
too,  three  centuries  before,  and  covered  with  velvet, 
gold-fringed  and  powdered  with  golden  grasshoppers. 
"That  common  insect  here!"  thought  Rosa,  in  sur- 
prise, for  she  did  not  know  that  the  chief  of  the  house, 
long,  long,  long  ago,  when  sleeping  in  the  heat  of  noon 
in  Palestine  in  the  first  crusade,  had  been  awakened  by 
a  grasshopper  lighting  on  his  eyelids,  and  so  had  been 


THE  AMBITIOUS   ROSE-TREE.  87 

aroused  in  time  to  put  on  his  armor  and  do  battle  with 
a  troop  attacking  Saracen  cavalry,  and  beat  them ; 
wherefore,  in  gratitude,  he  had  taken  the  humble  field- 
creature  as  his  badge  for  evermore. 

They  set  the  roots  of  Rosa  Indica  now  into  a  vase, 
— such  a  vase !  the  royal  blue  of  Sevres,  if  you  please, 
and  with  border  and  scroll  work  and  all  kinds  of 
wonders  and  glories  painted  on  it  and  gilded  on  it, 
and  standing  four  feet  high  if  it  stood  one  inch !  I 
could  never  tell  you  the  feelings  of  Rosa  if  I  wrote 
a  thousand  pages.  Her  heart  thrilled  so  with  ecstasy 
that  she  almost  dropped  all  her  petals,  only  her  vanity 
came  to  her  aid,  and  helped  her  to  control  in  a  measure 
her  emotions.  The  gardeners  broke  oflF  a  good  deal 
of  mould  about  her  roots,  and  they  muttered  one  to 
another  something  about  her  dying  of  it.  But  Rosa 
thought  no  more  of  that  than  a  pretty  lady  does  when 
her  physician  tells  her  she  will  die  of  tight  lacing ;  not 
she !     She  was  going  to  be  put  into  that  Sevres  vase. 

This  was  enough  for  her,  as  it  is  enough  for  the  lady 
that  she  is  going  to  be  put  into  a  hundred-guinea  ball- 
gown. 

In  she  went.  It  was  certainly  a  tight  fit,  as  the 
gown  often  is,  and  Rosa  felt  nipped,  strained,  bruised, 
sufibcated.  But  an  old  proverb  has  settled  long  ago 
that  pride  feels  no  pain,  and  perhaps  the  more  foolish 
the  pride  the  less  is  the  pain  that  is  felt — for  the 
moment. 

They  set  her  well  into  the  vase,  putting  green  moss 
over  her  roots,  and  then  they  stretched  her  branches 
out  over  a  gilded  trellis-work  at  the  back  of  the  vase. 
And  very  beautiful  she  looked;  and  she  was  at  the 


88  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

head  of  the  room,  and  a  huge  mirror  dowu  at  the 
farther  end  opposite  to  her  showed  her  own  reflection. 
She  Avas  in  paradise  ! 

"  At  last,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  at  last  they  have 
done  me  justice!" 

The  azaleas  were  all  crowded  round  underneath  her, 
like  so  many  kneeling  courtiers,  but  they  were  not 
taken  out  of  their  pots;  they  were  only  shrouded  in 
moss.  They  had  no  Sevres  vases.  And  they  had 
always  thought  so  much  of  themselves  and  given  them- 
selves such  airs,  for  there  is  nothing  so  vain  as  an 
azalea, — except,  indeed,  a  camellia,  which  is  the  most 
conceited  flower  in  the  world,  though,  to  do  it  justice, 
it  is  also  the  most  industrious,  for  it  is  busy  getting 
ready  its  next  winter  buds  whilst  the  summer  is  still 
hot  and  broad  on  the  land,  which  is  very  wise  and 
prudent  in  it  and  much  to  be  commended. 

Well,  there  was  Rosa  Indica  at  the  head  of  the  room 
in  the  Sevres  vase,  and  very  proud  and  triumphant  she 
felt  throned  there,  and  the  azaleas,  of  course,  were 
whispering  enviously  underneath  her,  "  Well,  after 
all,  she  was  only  Rosa  Damascena  not  so  very  long 
ago." 

Yes,  ihey  knew  !  What  a  pity  it  was !  They  knew 
she  had  once  been  Rosa  Damascena  and  never  would 
wash  it  out  of  their  minds, — the  tiresome,  spiteful, 
malignant  creatures ! 

Even  aloft  in  the  vase,  in  all  her  glory,  the  rose 
could  have  shed  tears  of  mortification,  and  was  ready 
to  cry,  like  Themistocles,  "  Can  nobody  give  us  ob- 
livion ?" 

Nobody  could  give  that,  for  the  azaleas,  who  were 


"pretty  poll!     oh,   such  a  pretty  poll  !" 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  gg 

SO  irritated  at  being  below  her,  were  not  at  all  likely 
to  hold  their  tongues.  But  she  had  great  consolations 
and  triumphs,  and  began  to  believe  that,  let  them  say 
what  they  chose,  she  had  never  been  a  common  garden- 
wall  rose.  The  ladies  of  the  house  came  in  and  praised 
her  to  the  skies ;  the  children  ran  up  to  her  and  clapped 
their  hands  and  shouted  for  joy  at  her  beauty ;  a  won- 
derful big  green  bird  came  in  and  hopped  before  her, 
cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and  said  to  her,  "  Pretty 
Poll !  oh,  such  a  pretty  Poll !" 

"  Even  the  birds  adore  me  here !"  she  thought,  not 
dreaming  he  was  only  talking  of  himself;  for  when 
you  are  as  vain  as  was  this  poor  dear  Rosa,  creation  is 
pervaded  with  your  own  perfections,  and  even  when 
other  people  say  only  "  Poll !"  you  feel  sure  they  are 
saying  "  You !"  or  they  ought  to  be  if  they  are  not. 

So  there  she  stood  in  her  grand  Sevres  pot,  and  she 
was  ready  to  cry  with  the  poet,  "  The  world  may  end 
to-night !"  Alas  !  it  was  not  the  world  which  was  to 
end.  Let  me  hasten  to  close  this  true  heart-rending 
history. 

There  was  a  great  dinner  as  the  sun  began  to  set, 
and  the  mistress  of  the  house  came  in  on  the  arm  of 
the  great  foreign  prince;  and  what  did  the  foreign 
prince  do  but  look  up  at  Rosa,  straight  up  at  her,  and 
over  the  heads  of  the  azaleas,  and  say  to  his  hostess, 
"  What  a  beautiful  rose  you  have  there !  A  Niph^tos, 
is  it  not?" 

And  her  mistress,  who  had  known  her  long  as 
simple  Rosa  Damascena,  answered,  "Yes,  sir;  it  is  a 
Niphaos." 

Oh  to  have  lived  for  that  hour !  The  silly  thing 
8* 


90  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

thought  it  worth  all  her  suffering  from  the  gardener's 
knife,  all  the  loss  of  her  robust  health  and  delightful 
power  of  flowering  in  all  four  seasons.  She  was  a 
Niph^tos,  really  and  truly  a  Niph^tos!  and  not  one 
syllable  hinted  as  to  her  origin !  She  began  to  believe 
she  had  been  born  a  tea-rose  I 

The  dinner  was  long  and  gorgeous ;  the  guests  were 
dazzling  in  jewels  and  in  decorations ;  the  table  was 
loaded  with  old  plate  and  rare  china ;  the  prince  made 
a  speech  and  used  her  as  a  simile  of  love  and  joy  and 
purity  and  peace.  The  rose  felt  giddy  with  triumph 
and  with  the  fumes  of  the  wines  around  her.  Her  vase 
was  of  purple  and  gold,  and  all  the  voices  round  her 
said,  "  Oh,  the  beautiful  rose !"  No  one  noticed  the 
azaleas.  How  she  wished  that  the  blackbird  could 
see  for  a  minute,  if  the  cat  would  gobble  him  up  the 
next! 

The  day  sped  on ;  the  chatelaine  and  her  guests 
went  away ;  the  table  was  rearranged ;  the  rose-tree 
was  left  in  its  place  of  honor;  the  lights  were  lit; 
there  was  the  sound  of  music  near  at  hand ;  they  were 
dancing  in  other  chambers. 

Above  her  hung  a  chandelier, — a  circle  of  imiumer- 
able  little  flames  and  drops  that  looked  like  dew  or 
diamonds.  She  thought  it  was  the  sun  come  very 
close.  After  it  had  been  there  a  little  while  it  grew 
very  hot,  and  its  rays  hurt  her. 

"  Can  you  not  go  a  little  farther  away,  O  Sun  ?"  she 
said  to  it.  It  was  flattered  at  being  taken  for  the  sun, 
but  answered  her,  "  I  am  fixed  in  my  place.  Do  you 
not  understand  astronomy  ?" 

She  did   not  know   what  astronomy   was,  so  was 


THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE.  91 

silent,  and  the  heat  hurt  her.  Still,  she  was  in  the 
place  of  honor :  so  she  was  happy. 

People  came  and  went;  but  nobody  noticed  her. 
They  ate  and  drank,  they  laughed  and  made  love,  and 
then  went  away  to  dance  again,  and  the  music  went 
on  all  night  long,  and  all  night  long  the  heat  of  the 
chandelier  poured  down  on  her. 

"  I  am  in  the  place  of  honor,"  she  said  to  herself  a 
thousand  times  in  each  hour. 

But  the  heat  scorched  her,  and  the  fumes  of  the 
wines  made  her  faint.  She  thought  of  the  sweet  fresh 
air  of  the  old  garden  where  the  Banksise  were.  The 
garden  was  quite  near,  but  the  windows  were  closed, 
and  there  were  the  walls  now  between  her  and  it.  She 
was  in  the  place  of  honor.  But  she  grew  sick  and 
waxed  faint  as  the  burning  rays  of  the  artificial  light 
shining  above  her  seemed  to  pierce  through  and  through 
her  like  lances  of  steel.  The  night  seemed  very  long. 
She  was  tired. 

She  was  erect  there  on  her  Sevres  throne,  with  the 
light  thrilling  and  throbbing  upon  her  in  every  point. 
But  she  thought  of  the  sweet,  dark,  fresh  nights  in  the 
old  home  where  the  blackbird  had  slept,  and  she  longed 
for  them. 

The  dancers  came  and  went,  the  music  thrummed 
and  screamed,  the  laughter  was  both  near  and  far ;  the 
rose-tree  was  amidst  it  all.  Yet  she  felt  alone, — all 
alone !  as  travellers  may  feel  in  a  desert.  Hour  suc- 
ceeded hour;  the  night  wore  on  apace;  the  dancers 
ceased  to  come ;  the  music  ceased,  too ;  the  light  still 
burned  down  upon  her,  and  the  scorching  fever  of  it 
consumed  her  like  fire. 


92  THE  AMBITIOUS  ROSE-TREE. 

Then  there  came  silence, — entire  silence.  Servants 
came  round  and  put  out  all  the  lights — hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  lights — quickly  one  by  one.  Other  ser- 
vants went  to  the  windows  and  threw  them  wide  open 
to  let  out  the  fumes  of  wine.  Without,  the  night  was 
changing  into  the  gray  that  tells  of  earliest  dawn. 
But  it  was  a  bitter  frost  j  the  grass  was  white  with  it ; 
the  air  was  ice.  In  the  great  darkness  that  had  now 
fallen  on  all  the  scene  this  deadly  cold  came  around 
the  rose-tree  and  wrapped  her  in  it  as  in  a  shroud. 

She  shivered  from  head  to  foot. 

The  cruel  glacial  coldness  crept  into  the  hot  ban- 
queting-chamber,  and  moved  round  it  in  white,  misty 
circles,  like  steam,  like  ghosts  of  the  gay  guests  that 
had  gone.  All  was  dark  and  chill, — dark  and  chill  as 
B,ny  grave ! 

What  worth  was  the  place  of  honor  now  ? 

Was  this  the  place  of  honor  ? 

The  rose-tree  swooned  and  drooped !  A  servant's 
rough  hand  shook  down  its  worn  beauty  into  a  heap 
of  fallen  leaves.  When  they  carried  her  out  dead  in 
the  morning,  the  little  Banksia-buds,  safe  hidden  from 
the  frost  within  their  stems,  waiting  to  come  forth 
when  the  summer  should  come,  murmured  to  one 
another, — 

"  She  had  her  wish  ;  she  was  great.  This  way  the 
gods  grant  foolish  prayers,  and  punish  discontent !" 


MOUFFLOU. 


MouFFLOu's  masters  were  some  boys  and  girls. 
They  were  very  poor,  but  they  were  very  merry. 
They  lived  in  an  old,  dark,  tumble-down  place,  and 
their  father  had  been  dead  five  years ;  their  mother's 
care  was  all  they  knew ;  and  Tasso  was  the  eldest  of 
them  all,  a  lad  of  nearly  twenty,  and  he  was  so  kind, 
so  good,  so  laborious,  so  cheerful,  and  so  gentle,  that 
the  children  all  younger  than  he  adored  him.  Tasso 
was  a  gardener.  Tasso,  however,  though  the  eldest 
and  mainly  the  bread-winner,  was  not  so  much  Mouf- 
flon's master  as  was  little  Romolo,  who  was  only  ten, 
and  a  cripple.  Romolo,  called  generally  Lolo,  had 
taught  Moufflou  all  he  knew ;  and  that  all  was  a  very 
great  deal,  for  nothing  cleverer  than  was  Moufflou  had 
ever  walked  upon  four  legs. 

Why  Moufflou  ? 

Well,  when  the  poodle  had  been  given  to  them  by  a 
soldier  who  was  going  back  to  his  home  in  Piedmont, 
he  had  been  a  white  woolly  creature  of  a  year  old, 
and  the  children's  mother,  who  was  a  Corsican  by 
birth,  had  said  that  he  was  just  like  a  moufflon,  as  they 
call  sheep  in  Corsica.  White  and  woolly  this  dog  re- 
mained, and  he  became  the  handsomest  and  biggest 
poodle  in  all  the  city,  and  the  corruption  of  Moufflou 

93 


94  MOUFFLOU. 

from  Moufflon  remained  the  name  by  which  he  was 
known;  it  was  silly,  perhaps,  but  it  suited  him  and  the 
children,  and  Moufflon  he  was. 

They  lived  in  an  old  quarter  of  Florence,  in  that 
picturesque  zigzag  which  goes  round  the  grand  church 
of  Or  San  Michele,  and  which  is  almost  more  Venetian 
than  Tuscan  in  its  mingling  of  color,  charm,  stateliness, 
popular  confusion,  and  architectural  majesty.  The  tall 
old  houses  are  weather-beaten  into  the  most  delicious 
hues ;  the  pavement  is  enchantingly  encumbered  with 
peddlers  and  stalls  and  all  kinds  of  trades  going  on  in 
the  open  air,  in  that  bright,  merry,  beautiful  Italian 
custom  which,  alas,  alas!  is  being  driven  away  by  new- 
fangled laws  which  deem  it  better  for  the  people  to  be 
stuffed  up  in  close,  stewing  rooms  without  air,  and 
would  fain  do  away  with  all  the  good-tempered  pol- 
itics and  the  sensible  philosophies  and  the  wholesome 
chatter  which  the  open-street  trades  and  street  gossipry 
encourage,  for  it  is  good  for  the  populace  to  sfogare, 
and  in  no  other  way  can  it  do  so  one-half  so  innocently. 
Drive  it  back  into  musty  shops,  and  it  is  driven  at  once 
to  mutter  sedition.  .  .  .  But  you  want  to  hear  about 
Moufflon. 

Well,  Moufflon  lived  here  in  that  high  house  with 
the  sign  of  the  lamb  in  wrought  iron,  which  shows  it 
M'as  once  a  warehouse  of  the  old  guild  of  the  Arte  della 
Lana.  They  are  all  old  houses  here,  drawn  round 
about  that  grand  church  which  I  called  once,  and  will 
call  again,  like  a  mighty  casket  of  oxidized  silver.  A 
mighty  casket  indeed,  holding  the  Holy  Spirit  within 
it;  and  with  the  vermilion  and  the  blue  and  the  orange 
glowing  in  its  niches  and  its  lunettes  like  enamels,  and 


itiOVFFLOU.  95 

its  statues  of  the  apostles  strong  and  noble,  like  the 
times  in  which  they  were  created, — St.  Peter  with  his 
keys,  and  St.  Mark  with  his  open  book,  and  St.  George 
leaning  on  his  sword,  and  others  also,  solemn  and  aus- 
tere as  they,  austere  though  benign,  for  do  they  not 
guard  the  White  Tabernacle  of  Orcagna  within? 

The  church  stands  firm  as  a  rock,  square  as  a  fortress 
of  stone,  and  the  winds  and  the  waters  of  the  skies 
may  beat  about  it  as  they  will,  they  have  no  power  to 
disturb  its  sublime  repose.  Sometimes  I  think  of  all 
the  noble  things  in  all  our  Italy  Or  San  Michele  is  the 
noblest,  standing  there  in  its  stern  magnificence,  amidst 
people's  hurrying  feet  and  noisy  laughter,  a  memory 
of  God. 

The  little  masters  of  Moufflou  lived  right  in  iis 
shadow,  where  the  bridge  of  stone  spans  the  space 
between  the  houses  and  the  church  high  in  mid-air: 
and  little  Lolo  loved  the  church  with  a  great  love. 
He  loved  it  in  the  morning-time,  when  the  sunbeams 
turned  it  into  dusky  gold  and  jasper ;  he  loved  it  in 
the  evening-time,  when  the  lights  of  its  altars  glim- 
mered in  the  dark,  and  the  scent  of  its  incense  came 
out  into  the  street;  he  loved  it  in  the  great  feasts, 
Avhen  the  huge  clusters  of  lilies  were  borne  inside  it ; 
he  loved  it  in  the  solemn  nights  of  winter ;  the  flick- 
ering gleam  of  the  dull  lamps  shone  on  the  robes  of 
an  apostle,  or  the  sculpture  of  a  shield,  or  the  glow  of 
a  casement-moulding  in  majolica.  He  loved  it  always, 
and,  without  knowing  why,  he  called  it  la  mia  chiesa. 

Lolo,  being  lame  and  of  delicate  health,  was  not 
enabled  to  go  io  school  or  to  work,  though  he  wove 
the  straw  covering  of  wine-flasks  and  plaited  the  can& 


96  MOUFFLOU. 

matting  with  busy  fingers.  But  for  tlie  most  part  he 
did  as  he  liked,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  sitting  on 
the  parapet  of  Or  San  Michele,  watching  the  venders 
of  earthenware  at  their  trucks,  or  trotting  with  his 
crutch  (and  he  could  trot  a  good  many  miles  when  he 
chose)  out  with  Moufflon  down  a  bit  of  the  Stocking- 
makers'  Street,  along  under  the  arcades  of  the  Uffizi, 
and  so  over  the  Jewellers'  Bridge,  and  out  by  byways 
that  he  knew  into  the  fields  on  the  hill-side  upon  the 
other  bank  of  Arno.  Moufflon  and  he  would  spend 
half  the  day — all  the  day — out  there  in  daffodil-time ; 
and  Lolo  would  come  home  with  great  bundles  and 
sheaves  of  golden  flowers,  and  he  and  Moufflou  were 
happy. 

His  mother  never  liked  to  say  a  harsh  word  to  Lolo, 
for  he  was  lame  through  her  fault :  she  had  let  him  fall 
in  his  babyhood,  and  the  mischief  had  been  done  to  his 
hip  never  again  to  be  undone.  So  she  never  raised  her 
voice  to  him,  though  she  did  often  to  the  others, — to 
curly-pated  Cecco,  and  pretty  black-eyed  Dina,  and 
saucy  Bice,  and  sturdy  Beppo,  and  even  to  the  good, 
manly,  hard-working  Tasso.  Tasso  was  the  mainstay 
of  the  whole,  though  he  was  but  a  gardener's  lad, 
M^orking  in  the  green  Cascine  at  small  wages.  But  all 
he  earned  he  brought  home  to  his  mother;  and  he 
alone  kept  in  order  the  lazy,  high-tempered  Sandro, 
and  he  alone  kept  in  check  Bice's  love  of  finery,  and 
he  alone  could  with  shrewdness  and  care  make  both 
ends  meet  and  put  minestra  always  in  the  pot  and 
bread  always  in  the  cupboard. 

When  his  mother  thought,  as  she  thought  indeed 
almost  ceaselessly,  tliat  with  a  few  months  he  would 


MOUFFLOU.  97 

be  of  the  age  to  draw  his  number,  and  might  draw  a 
high  one  and  be  taken  from  her  for  three  years,  the 
poor  soul  believed  her  very  heart  would  burst  and 
break ;  and  many  a  day  at  twilight  she  would  start 
out  unperceived  and  creep  into  the  great  church  and 
pour  her  soul  forth  in  supplication  before  the  White 
Tabernacle. 

Yet,  pray  as  she  would,  no  miracle  could  happen  to 
make  Tasso  free  of  military  service :  if  he  drew  a  fatal 
number,  go  he  must,  even  though  he  take  all  the  lives 
of  them  to  their  ruin  with  him. 

One  morning  Lolo  sat  as  usual  on  the  parapet  of  the 
church,  Moufflou  beside  him.  It  was  a  brilliant  morn- 
ing in  September.  The  men  at  the  hand-barrows  and 
at  the  stalls  were  selling  the  crockery,  the  silk  handker- 
chiefs, and  the  straw  hats  which  form  the  staple  of  the 
commerce  that  goes  on  round  about  Or  San  Michele, — 
very  blithe,  good-natured,  gay  commerce,  for  the  most 
part,  not  got  through,  however,  of  course,  without 
bawling  and  screaming,  and  shouting  and  gesticulat- 
ing, as  if  the  sale  of  a  penny  pipkin  or  a  twopenny 
pie-pan  were  the  occasion  for  the  exchange  of  many 
thousands  of  pounds  sterling  and  cause  for  the  whole 
world's  commotion.  It  was  about  eleven  o'clock ;  the 
poor  petitioners  were  going  in  for  alms  to  the  house  of 
the  fraternity  of  San  Giovanni  Battista ;  the  barber  at 
the  corner  was  shaving  a  big  man  with  a  cloth  tucked 
about  his  chin,  and  his  chair  set  well  out  on  the  pave- 
ment; the  sellers  of  the  pipkins  and  pie-pans  were 
screaming  till  they  were  hoarse,  "  Un  soldo  Vuno,  due 
soldi  tre!"  big  bronze  bells  were  booming  till  they 
seemed  to  clang  right  up  to  the  deep-blue  sky ;  some 
%       ff  9 


98  MOUFFLOU. 

brethren  of  the  Misericordia  went  by  bearing  a  black 
bier;  a  large  sheaf  of  glowing  flowers — dahlias,  zin- 
nias, asters,  and  daturas — was  borne  through  the  huge 
arched  door  of  the  church  near  St.  Mark  and  his 
open  book.  Lolo  looked  on  at  it  all,  and  so  did 
Moufflon,  and  a  stranger  looked  at  them  as  he  left 
the  church. 

"  You  have  a  handsome  poodle  there,  my  little  man," 
he  said  to  Lolo,  in  a  foreigner's  too  distinct  and  careful 
Italian. 

"Mouffiou  is  beautiful,"  said  Lolo,  with  pride. 
"You  should  see  him  when  he  is  just  washed;  but 
we  can  only  wash  him  on  Sundays,  because  then  Tasso 
is  at  home." 

"  How  old  is  your  dog  ?" 

"  Three  years  old." 

"  Does  he  do  any  tricks  ?" 

"  Does  he !"  said  Lolo,  with  a  very  derisive  laugh  : 
"  why.  Moufflon  can  do  anything !  He  can  walk  on 
make  ready,  present,  and  fire ; 
shut  a  door ;  make  a  wheel- 
barrow of  himself:  there  is  nothing  he  will  not  do. 
Would  you  like  to  see  him  do  something  ?" 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  foreigner. 

To  Moufflon  and  to  Lolo  the  street  was  the  same 
thing  as  home ;  this  cheery  piazzetta  by  the  church,  so 
utterly  empty  sometimes,  and  sometimes  so  noisy  and 
crowded,  was  but  the  wider  threshold  of  their  home 
to  both  the  poodle  and  the  child. 

So  there,  under  the  lofty  and  stately  walls  of  the 
old  church,  Lolo  put  Moufflon  through  his  exercises. 
They  were   second    nature   to    Moufflon,  as   to   most 


MOUFFLOU.  99 

poodles.  lie  had  inherited  his  address  at  them  from 
clever  parents,  and,  as  he  had  never  been  frightened  or 
coerced,  all  his  lessons  and  acquirements  were  but  play- 
to  him.  He  acquitted  himself  admirably,  and  the 
crockery-venders  came  and  looked  on,  and  a  sacristan 
came  out  of  the  church  and  smiled,  and  the  barber  left 
his  customer's  chin  all  in  a  lather  while  he  laughed,  for 
the  good  folk  of  the  quarter  were  all  proud  of  Mouf- 
flon and  never  tired  of  him,  and  the  pleasant,  easy- 
going, good-humored  disposition  of  the  Tuscan  popu- 
lace is  so  far  removed  from  the  stupid  buckram  and 
whalebone  in  which  the  new-fangled  democracy  wants 
to  imprison  it. 

The  stranger  also  was  much  diverted  by  Moufflou's 
talents,  and  said,  half  aloud,  "  How  this  clever  dog 
would  amuse  poor  Victor !  Would  you  bring  your 
poodle  to  please  a  sick  child  I  have  at  home !"  he  said, 
quite  aloud,  to  Lolo,  who  smiled  and  answered  that  he 
would.     Where  was  the  sick  child  ? 

"  At  the  Gran  Bretagna  ;  not  far  off,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman. "Come  this  afternoon,  and  ask  for  me  by 
this  name." 

He  dropped  his  card  and  a  couple  of  francs  into 
Lolo's  hand,  and  went  his  way.  Lolo,  with  Moufflon 
scampering  after  him,  dashed  into  his  own  house,  and 
stumped  up  the  stairs,  his  crutch  making  a  terrible 
noise  on  the  stone. 

"Mother,  mother!  see  what  I  have  got  because 
Moufflou  did  his  tricks,"  he  shouted.  "And  now  you 
can  buy  those  shoes  you  want  so  much,  and  the  coffee 
that  you  miss  so  of  a  morning,  and  the  new  linen  for 
Tasso,  and  the  shirts  for  Sandro." 


100  MOUFFLOU. 

For  to  the  mind  of  Lolo  two  francs  was  as  two 
millionSj — source  unfathomable  of  riches  inexhaustible ! 

With  the  afternoon  he  and  Moufflou  trotted  down 
the  arcades  of  the  Uffizi  and  down  the  Lung'  Arno  to 
the  hotel  of  the  stranger,  and,  showing  the  stranger's 
card,  which  Lolo  could  not  read,  they  were  shown  at 
once  into  a  great  chamber,  all  gilding  and  fresco  and 
velvet  furniture. 

But  Lolo,  being  a  little  Florentine,  was  never  troubled 
by  externals,  or  daunted  by  mere  sofas  and  chairs :  he 
stood  and  looked  around  him  with  perfect  composure  f 
and  Moufflou,  whose  attitude,  when  he  was  not  romp- 
ing, was  always  one  of  magisterial  gravity,  sat  on  his 
haunches  and  did  the  same. 

Soon  the  foreigner  he  had  seen  in  the  forenoon 
entered  and  spoke  to  him,  and  led  him  into  another 
chamber,  where  stretched  on  a  couch  was  a  little  wan- 
faced  boy  about  seven  years  old ;  a  pretty  boy,  but  so 
pallid,  so  wasted,  so  helpless.  This  poor  little  boy  was 
heir  to  a  great  name  and  a  great  fortune,  but  all  the 
science  in  the  world  could  not  make  him  strong  enough 
to  run  about  among  the  daisies,  or  able  to  draw  a  single 
breath  without  pain.  A  feeble  smile  lit  up  his  face  as 
he  saw  Moufflou  and  Lolo ;  then  a  shadow  chased  it 
away. 

"  Little  boy  is  lame  like  me,"  he  said,  in  a  tongue 
Lolo  did  not  understand. 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  a  strong  little  boy,  and  can  move 
about,  as  perhaps  the  suns  of  his  country  will  make 
you  do,"  said  the  gentleman,  who  was  the  poor  little 
boy's  father.  "  He  has  brought  you  his  poodle  to 
amuse  you.     What  a  handsome  dog  !  is  it  not  ?" 


MOUFFLi.)U    ACt^lTTkD    HIMShLF    ABLY    AS    h\'tK. 


MOUFFLOU.  101 

•*  Oh,  bufflins  !"  said  the  poor  little  fellow,  stretching 
out  his  wasted  hands  to  Moufflon,  who  submitted  his 
leonine  crest  to  the  caress. 

Then  Lolo  went  through  the  performance,  and 
Moufflou  acquitted  himself  ably  as  ever  ;  and  the  little 
invalid  laughed  and  shouted  with  his  tiny  thin  voice, 
and  enjoyed  it  all  immensely,  and  rained  cakes  and 
biscuits  on  both  the  poodle  and  its  master.  Lolo 
crumped  the  pastries  with  willing  white  teeth,  and 
Moufflou  did  no  less.  Then  they  got  up  to  go,  and 
the  sick  child  on  the  couch  burst  into  fretful  lamenta- 
tions and  outcries. 

"  I  want  the  dog !  I  will  have  the  dog !"  was  all 
he  kept  repeating. 

But  Lolo  did  not  know  what  he  said,  and  was  only 
sorry  to  see  him  so  unhappy. 

"You  shall  have  the  dog  to-morrow,"  said  the 
gentleman,  to  pacify  his  little  son;  and  he  hurried 
Lolo  and  Moufflou  out  of  the  room,  and  consigned 
them  to  a  servant,  having  given  Lolo  five  francs  this 
time. 

"Why,  Moufflou,"  said  Lolo,  with  a  chuckle  of 
delight,  "if  we  could  find  a  foreigner  every  day,  we 
could  eat  meat  at  supper,  Moufflou,  and  go  to  the 
theatre  every  evening !" 

And  he  and  his  crutch  clattered  home  with  great 
eagerness  and  excitement,  and  Moufflou  trotted  on  his 
four  frilled  feet,  the  blue  bow  with  which  B  ce  had 
tied  up  his  curls  on  the  top  of  his  head,  fluttering  in 
the  wind.  But,  alas !  even  his  five  francs  could  bring 
no  comfort  at  home.  He  found  his  whole  family 
wailing  and  mourning  in  utterly  inconsolable  distress. 


102  MOUFFLOU. 

Tasso  had  drawn  his  number  that  morning,  and  the 
number  was  seven,  and  he  must  go  and  be  a  conscript 
for  three  years. 

The  poor  young  man  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  weep- 
ing brothers  and  sisters,  with  his  mother  leaning  against 
his  shoulder,  and  down  his  own  brown  cheeks  the  tears 
were  falling.  He  must  go,  and  lose  his  place  in  the 
public  gardens,  and  leave  his  people  to  starve  as  they 
might,  and  be  put  in  a  tomfool's  jacket,  and  drafted 
ofif  among  cursing  and  swearing  and  strange  faces, 
friendless,  homeless,  miserable!  And  the  mother, — 
what  would  become  of  the  mother  ? 

Tasso  was  the  best  of  lads  and  the  mildest.  He 
was  quite  happy  sweeping  up  the  leaves  in  the  long 
alleys  of  the  Cascine,  or  mowing  the  green  lawns  under 
the  ilex  avenues,  and  coming  home  at  supper-time 
among  the  merry  little  people  and  the  good  woman 
that  he  loved.  He  was  quite  contented;  he  wanted 
nothing,  only  to  be  let  alone ;  and  they  would  not  let 
him  alone.  They  would  haul  him  away  to  put  a  heavy 
musket  in  his  hand  and  a  heavy  knapsack  on  his  back, 
and  drill  him,  and  curse  him,  and  make  him  into  a 
human  target,  a  live  popinjay. 

No  one  had  any  heed  for  Lolo  and  his  five  francs, 
and  Moufflon,  understanding  that  some  great  sorrow 
had  fallen  on  his  friends,  sat  down  and  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  howled. 

Tasso  must  go  away ! — that  was  all  they  understood. 
For  three  long  years  they  must  go  without  the  sight  of 
his  face,  the  aid  of  his  strength,  the  pleasure  of  his 
smile:  Tasso  must  go!  When  Lolo  understood  the 
calamity  that  had  befallen  them,  he  gathered  Moufflou 


MOUFFLOU.  103 

up  against  his  breast,  and  sat  down  too  on  the  floor 
beside  him  and  cried  as  if  he  would  never  stop  crying. 

There  was  no  help  for  it :  it  was  one  of  those  mis- 
fortunes which  are,  as  we  say  in  Italian,  like  a  tile 
tumbled  on  the  head.  The  tile  drops  from  a  height, 
and  the  poor  head  bows  under  the  unseen  blow.  That 
is  all. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  that  ?"  said  the  mother,  pas- 
sionately, when  Lolo  showed  her  his  five  francs.  "  It 
will  not  buy  Tasso's  discharge." 

Lolo  felt  that  his  mother  was  cruel  and  unjust,  and 
crept  to  bed  with  Moufflon.  Moufflou  always  slept  on 
Lolo's  feet. 

The  next  morning  Lolo  got  up  before  sunrise,  and 
he  and  Moufflou  accompanied  Tasso  to  his  work  in  the 
Cascine. 

Lolo  loved  his  brother,  and  clung  to  every  moment 
•whilst  they  could  still  be  together. 

"  Can  nothing  keep  you,  Tasso  ?"  he  said,  despair- 
ingly, as  they  went  down  the  leafy  aisles,  whilst  the 
Arno  water  was  growing  golden  as  the  sun  rose. 

Tasso  sighed. 

"Nothing,  dear.  Unless  Gesii  would  send  me  a 
thousand  francs  to  buy  a  substitute." 

And  he  knew  he  might  as  well  have  said,  "  If  one 
could  coin  gold  ducats  out  of  the  sunbeams  on  Arno 
water." 

Lolo  was  very  sorrowful  as  he  lay  on  the  grass  in 
the  meadow  where  Tasso  was  at  work,  and  the  poodle 
lay  stretched  beside  him. 

When  Lolo  went  home  to  dinner  (Tasso  took  his 
wrapped  in  a  handkerchief)  he  found  his  mother  very 


104  MOUFFLOU. 

agitated  and  excited.  She  was  laughing  one  moment, 
crying  the  next.  She  was  passionate  and  peevish,  ten- 
der and  jocose  by  turns ;  there  was  something  forced 
and  feverish  about  her  which  the  children  felt  but  did 
not  comprehend.  She  was  a  woman  of  not  very  much 
intelligence,  and  she  had  a  secret,  and  she  carried  it  ill, 
and  knew  not  what  to  do  with  it ;  but  they  could  not 
tell  that.  They  only  felt  a  vague  sense  of  disturbance 
and  timidity  at  her  unwonted  manner. 

The  meal  over  (it  was  only  bean-soup,  and  that  is 
soon  eaten),  the  mother  said  sharply  to  Lolo,  "  Your 
aunt  Anita  wants  you  this  afternoon.  She  has  to  go 
out,  and  you  are  needed  to  stay  with  the  children  :  be 
oif  with  you." 

Lolo  was  an  obedient  child ;  he  took  his  hat  and 
jumped  up  as  quickly  as  his  halting  hip  would  let 
him.     He  called  Moufflou,  who  was  asleep. 

"  Leave  the  dog,"  said  his  mother,  sharply.  "  'Nita 
will  not  have  him  messing  and  carrying  mud  about 
her  nice  clean  rooms.  She  told  me  so.  Leave  him,  I 
say." 

"  Leave  Moufflou !"  echoed  Lolo,  for  never  in  all 
Moufflon's  life  had  Lolo  parted  from  him.  Leave 
Moufflou !  He  stared  open-eyed  and  open-mouthed 
at  his  mother.     What  could  have  come  to  her  ? 

"  Leave  him,  I  say,"  she  repeated,  more  sharply 
than  ever.  "Must  I  speak  twice  to  my  own  children? 
Be  off  with  you,  and  leave  the  dog,  I  say." 

And  she  clutched  Moufflou  by  his  long  silky  mane 
and  dragged  him  backwards,  whilst  with  the  other 
hand  she  thrust  out  of  the  door  Lolo  and  Bice. 

Lolo  began  to  hammer  with  his  crutch  at  the  door 


MOUFFLOU.  105 

thus  closed  on  him ;  but  Bice  coaxed  and  entreated 
him. 

"  Poor  mother  has  been  so  worried  about  Tasso," 
she  pleaded.  "  And  what  harm  can  come  to  Mouf- 
flou  ?  And  I  do  think  he  was  tired,  Lolo  ;  the  Cas- 
cine  is  a  long  way;  and  it  is  quite  true  that"  Aunt 
'Mta  never  liked  him." 

So  by  one  means  and  another  she  coaxed  her  brother 
away ;  and  they  went  almost  in  silence  to  where  their 
aunt  Anita  dwelt,  which  was  across  the  river,  near  the 
dark-red  bell-shaped  dome  of  Santa  Spirito. 

It  was  true  that  her  aunt  had  wanted  them  to  mind 
her  room  and  her  babies  whilst  she  was  away  carrying 
home  some  lace  to  a  villa  outside  the  Roman  gate,  for 
she  was  a  lace-washer  and  clear-starcher  by  trade. 
There  they  had  to  stay  in  the  little  dark  room  with 
the  two  babies,  with  nothing  to  amuse  the  time  except 
the  clang  of  the  bells  of  the  church  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
and  the  voices  of  the  lemonade-sellers  shouting  in  the 
street  below.  Aunt  Anita  did  not  get  back  till  it  was 
more  than  dusk,  and  the  two  children  trotted  home- 
ward hand  in  hand,  Lolo's  leg  dragging  itself  pain- 
fully along,  for  without  Mouflflou's  white  figure  dan- 
cing on  before  him  he  felt  very  tired  indeed.  It  was 
pitch  dark  when  they  got  to  Or  San  Michel e,  and  the 
lamps  burned  dully. 

Lolo  stumped  up  the  stairs  wearily,  with  a  vague, 
dull  fear  at  his  small  heart. 

"  Moufiflou,  Moufflon !"  he  called.  Where  was 
Moufflon  ?  Always  at  the  first  sound  of  his  crutch 
the  poodle  came  flying  towards  him.  "  Moufflou, 
Moufflon !"  he  called  all  the  way  up  the  long,  dark, 


X06  MOVFFLOV. 

twisting  stone  stair.  He  pushed  open  the  door,  and 
he  called  again,  "  Moufflon,  Moufflon  !" 

But  no  dog  answered  to  his  call. 

""  Mother,  where  is  Moufflon  ?"  he  asked,  staring 
with  blinking,  dazzled  eyes  into  the  oil-lit  room  where 
his  mother  sat  knitting.  Tasso  was  not  then  home 
from  work.  His  mother  went  on  with  her  knitting ; 
there  was  an  uneasy  look  on  her  face. 

"  Mother,  what  have  you  done  with  Moufflon,  my 
Moufflon?"  said  Lolo,  with  a  look  that  was  almost 
stern  on  his  ten-year-old  face. 

Then  his  mother,  without  looking  up  and  moving 
her  knitting-needles  very  rapidly,  said, — 

"  Moufflon  is  sold  !" 

And  little  Dina,  who  was  a  quick,  pert  child,  cried, 
with  a  shrill  voice, — 

"  Mother  has  sold  him  for  a  thousand  francs  to  the 
foreign  gentleman." 

"  Sold  him  !" 

Lolo  grew  white  and  grew  cold  as  ice ;  he  stam- 
mered, threw  up  his  hands  over  his  head,  gasped  a 
little  for  breath,  then  fell  down  in  a  dead  swoon,  his 
poor  useless  limb  doubled  under  him. 

When  Tasso  came  home  that  sad  night  and  found 
his  little  brother  shivering,  moaning,  and  half  deliri- 
ous, and  when  he  heard  what  had  been  done,  he  was 
sorely  grieved. 

"  Oh,  mother,  how  could  you  do  it  ?"  he  cried. 
*'  Poor,  poor  Moufflon  !  and  Lolo  loves  him  so  !" 

"  I  have  got  the  money,"  said  his  mother,  feverishly, 
"  and  you  will  not  need  to  go  for  a  soldier :  we  can 
buy  your  substitute.     What   is  a   poodle,  that  you 


MOUFFLOU.  107 

mourn  about  it?  We  can  get  another  poodle  for 
Lolo." 

"Another  will  not  be  Moufflon/'  said  Tasso,  and  yet 
was  seized  with  such  a  frantic  happiness  himself  at 
the  knowledge  that  he  would  not  need  go  to  the  army, 
that  he  too  felt  as  if  he  were  drunk  on  new  wine,  and 
had  not  the  heart  to  rebuke  his  mother. 

"A  thousand  francs!"  he  muttered;  "a  thousand 
francs!  Dio  mio!  Who  could  ever  have  fancied  any- 
body would  have  given  such  a  price  for  a  common 
white  poodle?  One  would  think  the  gentleman  had 
bought  the  church  and  the  tabernacle !" 

"  Fools  and  their  money  are  soon  parted,"  said  his 
mother,  with  cross  contempt. 

It  was  true :  she  had  sold  Moufflon. 

The  English  gentleman  had  called  on  her  while  Lolo 
and  the  dog  had  been  in  the  Casein  e,  and  had  said  that 
he  was  desirous  of  buying  the  poodle,  which  had  so 
diverted  his  sick  child  that  the  little  invalid  would  not 
be  comforted  unless  he  possessed  it.  Now,  at  any  other 
time  the  good  woman  would  have  sturdily  refused  any 
idea  of  selling  Moufflou ;  but  that  morning  the  thou- 
sand francs  which  would  buy  Tasso's  substitute  were 
forever  in  her  mind  and  before  her  eyes.  When  she 
heard  the  foreigner  her  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and 
her  head  swam  giddily,  and  she  thought,  in  a  spasm 
of  longing — if  she  could  get  those  thousand  francs ! 
But  though  she  was  so  dizzy  and  so  upset  she  retained 
her  grip  on  her  native  Florentine  shrewdness.  She 
said  nothing  of  her  need  of  the  money  j  not  a  syllable 
of  her  sore  distress.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  coy  and 
wary,  affected  great  reluctance  to  part  with  her  pet. 


108  MOUFFLOU. 

invented  a  great  offer  made  for  him  by  a  director  of 
a  circus,  and  finally  let  fall  a  hint  that  less  than  a 
thousand  francs  she  could  never  take  for  poor  Mouf- 
flou. 

The  gentleman  assented  with  so  much  willingness 
to  the  price  that  she  instantly  regretted  not  having 
asked  double.  He  told  her  that  if  she  would  take  the 
poodle  that  afternoon  to  his  hotel  the  money  should  be 
paid  to  her;  so  she  despatched  her  children  after  their 
noonday  meal  in  various  directions,  and  herself  took 
Moufflou  to  his  doom.  She  could  not  believe  her 
senses  when  ten  hundred-franc  notes  were  put  into  her 
hand.  She  scrawled  her  signature,  Rosina  Calabucci, 
to  a  formal  receipt,  and  went  away,  leaving  Moufflou 
in  his  new  owner's  rooms,  and  hearing  his  howls  and 
moans  pursue  her  all  the  way  down  the  staircase  and 
out  into  the  air. 

She  was  not  easy  at  what  she  had  done. 

"  It  seemed,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  like  selling  a 
Christian." 

But  then  to  keep  her  eldest  son  at  home, — what  a 
joy  that  was !  On  the  whole,  she  cried  so  and  laughed 
so  as  she  went  down  the  Lung'  Arno  that  once  or  twice 
people  looked  at  her,  thinking  her  out  of  her  senses, 
and  a  guard  spoke  to  her  angrily. 

Meanwhile,  Lolo  was  sick  and  delirious  with  grief. 
Twenty  times  he  got  out  of  his  bed  and  screamed  to 
be  allowed  to  go  with  Moufflou,  and  twenty  times  his 
mother  and  his  brothers  put  him  back  again  and  held 
him  down  and  tried  in  vain  to  quiet  him. 

The  child  was  beside  him^self  with  misery,  "Mouf- 
flou !  Moufflou !"  he  sobbed  at  every  moment ;  and  by 


MOUFFLOU.  109 

night  he  was  in  a  raging  fever,  and  when  his  mother, 
frightened,  ran  in  and  called  in  the  doctor  of  the 
quarter,  that  worthy  shook  his  head  and  said  some- 
thing as  to  a  shock  of  the  nervous  system,  and  muttered 
a  long  word, — "  meningitis." 

Lolo  took  a  hatred  to  the  sight  of  Tasso,  and  thrust 
him  away,  and  his  mother  too. 

"  It  is  for  you  Moufflou  is  sold,"  he  said,  with  his 
little  teeth  and  hands  tight  clinched. 

After  a  day  or  two  Tasso  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear 
his  life,  and  went  down  to  the  hotel  to  see  if  the  foreign 
gentleman  would  allow  him  to  have  Moufflou  back  for 
half  an  hour  to  quiet  his  little  brother  by  a  sight  of 
him.  But  at  the  hotel  he  was  told  that  the  Milord 
Inglese  who  had  bought  the  dog  of  Eosina  Calabucci 
had  gone  that  same  night  of  the  purchase  to  Rome,  to 
Naples,  to  Palermo,  chi  sa  f 

"  And  Moufflou  with  him  ?"  asked  Tasso. 

"  The  barbone  he  had  bought  went  with  him,"  said 
the  porter  of  the  hotel.  "Such  a  beast!  Howling, 
shrieking,  raging  all  the  day,  and  all  the  paint  scratched 
off  the  salon  door." 

Poor  Moufflou  !  Tasso's  heart  was  heavy  as  he 
heard  of  that  sad  helpless  misery  of  their  bartered 
favorite  and  friend. 

"What  matter?"  said  his  mother,  fiercely,  when  he 
told  her.  "  A  dog  is  a  dog.  They  will  feed  him 
better  than  we  could.  In  a  week  he  will  have  for- 
gotten—c/i^  .'" 

But  Tasso  feared  that  Moufflou  would  not  forget. 
Lolo  certainly  would  not.  The  doctor  came  to  the 
bedside  twice  a  day,  and  ice  and  water  were  kept  on 
10 


110  MOUFFLOU. 

the  aching  hot  little  head  that  had  got  the  malady  with 
the  long  name,  and  for  the  chief  part  of  the  time  Lolo 
lay  quiet,  dull,  and  stupid,  breathing  heavily,  and  then 
at  intervals  cried  and  sobbed  and  shrieked  hysterically 
for  Moufflon. 

"  Can  you  not  get  what  he  calls  for  to  quiet  him 
with  a  sight  of  it  ?"  said  the  doctor.  But  that  was  not 
possible,  and  poor  Rosina  covered  her  head  with  her 
apron  and  felt  a  guilty  creature. 

"  Still,  you  will  not  go  to  the  army,"  she  said  to 
Tasso,  clinging  to  that  immense  joy  for  her  consola- 
tion. "  Only  think  !  we  can  pay  Guido  Squarcione  to 
go  for  you.  He  always  said  he  would  go  if  anybody 
would  pay  him.  Oh,  my  Tasso,  surely  to  keep  you  is 
worth  a  dog's  life !" 

"And  Lolo's?"  said  Tasso,  gloomily.  "Nay,  mother, 
it  works  ill  to  meddle  too  much  with  fate.  I  drew  my 
number;  I  was  bound  to  go.  Heaven  would  have 
made  it  up  to  you  somehow." 

"  Heaven  sent  me  the  foreigner ;  the  Madonna's  own 
self  sent  him  to  ease  a  mother's  pain,"  said  Rosina, 
rapidly  and  angrily.  "  There  are  the  thousand  francs 
safe  to  hand  in  the  cassone,  and  what,  pray,  is  it  we 
miss  ?  Only  a  dog  like  a  sheep,  that  brought  gallons 
of  mud  in  with  him  every  time  it  rained,  and  ate  as 
much  as  any  one  of  you." 

"But  Lolo?"  said  Tasso,  under  his  breath. 

His  mother  was  so  irritated  and  so  tormented  by 
her  own  conscience  that  she  upset  all  the  cabbage  broth 
into  the  burning  charcoal. 

"Lolo  was  always  a  little  fool,  thinking  of  nothing 
but  the  church  and  the  dog  and  nasty  field-flowers," 


MOUFFLOU.  Ill 

she  said,  angrily.  "I  humored  him  ever  too  much 
because  of  the  hurt  to  his  hip,  and  so — and  so " 

Then  the  poor  soul  made  matters  worse  by  drop- 
ping her  tears  into  the  saucepan,  and  fanning  the 
charcoal  so  furiously  that  the  flame  caught  her  fan  of 
cane-leaves,  and  would  have  burned  her  arm  had  not 
Tasso  been  there. 

"  You  are  ray  prop  and  safety  always.  Who  would 
not  have  done  what  I  did?  Not  Santa  Felicita 
herself,"  she  said,  with  a  great  sob. 

But  all  this  did  not  cure  poor  Lolo. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  of  the  golden  autumn 
weather  passed  away,  and  he  was  always  in  danger, 
and  the  small  close  room  where  he  slept  with  Sandro 
and  Beppo  and  Tasso  was  not  one  to  cure  such  an  ill- 
ness as  had  now  beset  him.  Tasso  went  to  his  work 
with  a  sick  heart  in  the  Cascine,  where  the  colchicum 
was  all  lilac  among  the  meadow  grass,  and  the  ashes 
and  elms  were  taking  their  first  flush  of  the  coming 
autumnal  change.  He  did  not  think  Lolo  would  ever 
get  well,  and  the  good  lad  felt  as  if  he  had  been  the 
murderer  of  his  little  brother. 

True,  he  had  had  no  hand  or  voice  in  the  sale  of 
Moufflon,  but  Moufflon  had  been  sold  for  his  sake.  It 
made  him  feel  half  guilty,  very  unhappy,  quite  un- 
worthy all  the  sacrifice  that  had  been  made  for  him. 
"Nobody  should  meddle  with  fate,"  thought  Tasso, 
who  knew  his  grandfather  had  died  in  San  Bonifazio 
because  he  had  driven  himself  mad  over  the  dream- 
book  trying  to  get  lucky  numbers  for  the  lottery  and 
become  a  rich  man  at  a  stroke. 

It  was  rapture,  indeed,  to  know  that  he  was  free  of 


112  MOUFFLOV. 

the  army  for  a  time  at  least,  that  he  might  go  on  un- 
disturbed at  his  healthful  labor,  and  get  a  rise  in  wages 
as  time  went  on,  and  dwell  in  peace  with  his  family, 
and  perhaps — perhaps  in  time  earn  enough  to  marry 
pretty  flaxen-haired  Biondina,  the  daughter  of  the  bar- 
ber in  the  piazzetta.  It  was  rapture  indeed ;  but  then 
poor  Moufflon  ! — and  poor,  poor  Lolo !  Tasso  felt  as 
if  he  had  bought  his  own  exemption  by  seeing  his  little 
brother  and  the  good  dog  torn  in  pieces  and  buried  alive 
for  his  service. 

And  where  was  poor  Moufflou  ? 

Gone  far  away  somewhere  south  in  the  hurrying, 
screeching,  vomiting,  braying  train  that  it  made  Tasso 
giddy  only  to  look  at  as  it  rushed  by  the  green  meadows 
beyond  the  Cascine  on  its  way  to  the  sea. 

"  If  he  could  see  the  dog  he  cries  so  for,  it  might 
save  him,"  said  the  doctor,  who  stood  with  a  grave  face 
watching  Lolo. 

But  that  was  beyond  any  one's  power.  No  one  could 
tell  where  Moufflou  was.  He  might  be  carried  away 
to  England,  to  France,  to  Eussia,  to  America, — who 
could  say  ?  They  did  not  know  where  his  purchaser 
had  gone.     Moufflou  even  might  be  dead. 

The  poor  mother,  when  the  doctor  said  that,  went 
and  looked  at  the  ten  hundred-franc  notes  that  were 
once  like  angels'  faces  to  her,  and  said  to  them, — 

"  Oh,  you  children  of  Satan,  why  did  you  tempt  me  ? 
I  sold  the  poor,  innocent,  trustful  beast  to  get  you,  and 
now  my  child  is  dying !" 

Her  eldest  son  would  stay  at  home,  indeed ;  but  if 
this  little  lame  one  died !  Roslna  Calabucci  would 
have  given  up  the  notes  and  consented  never  to  own 


MOUFFLOU.  113 

five  francs  in  her  life  if  only  she  could  have  gone  back 
over  the  time  and  kept  Moufflon,  and  seen  his  little 
master  running  out  with  him  into  the  sunshine. 

More  than  a  month  went  by,  and  Lolo  lay  in  the 
same  state,  his  yellow  hair  shorn,  his  eyes  dilated  and 
yet  stupid,  life  kept  in  him  by  a  spoonful  of  milk,  a 
lump  of  ice,  a  drink  of  lemon-water ;  always  mutter- 
ing, when  he  spoke  at  all,  "  Moufflon,  Moufflon,  dov'  ^ 
Moufflon  ?"  and  lying  for  days  together  in  somnolence 
and  unconsciousness,  with  the  fire  eating  at  his  brain 
and  the  weight  lying  on  it  like  a  stone. 

The  neighbors  were  kind,  and  brought  fruit  and  the 
like,  and  sat  up  with  him,  and  chattered  so  all  at  once 
in  one  continuous  brawl  that  they  were  enough  in 
themselves  to  kill  him,  for  such  is  ever  the  Italian 
fashion  of  sympathy  in  all  illness. 

But  Lolo  did  not  get  well,  did  not  even  seem  to  see 
the  light  at  all,  or  to  distinguish  any  sounds  around 
him ;  and  the  doctor  in  plain  words  told  Rosina  Cala- 
bucci  that  her  little  boy  must  die.  Die,  and  the  church 
so  near  ?  She  could  not  believe  it.  Could  St.  Mark, 
and  St.  George,  and  the  rest  that  he  had  loved  so  do 
nothing  for  him  ?  No,  said  the  doctor,  they  could  do 
nothing;  the  dog  might  do  something,  since  the  brain 
had  so  fastened  on  that  one  idea ;  but  then  they  had 
sold  the  dog. 

"  Yes ;  I  sold  him !"  said  the  poor  mother,  breaking 
into  floods  of  remorseful  tears. 

So  at  last  the  end  drew  so  nigh  that  one  twilight 

time  the  priest  came  out  of  the  great  arched  door  that 

is  next  St.  Mark,  with  the  Host  uplifted,  and  a  little 

acolyte  ringing  the  bell  before  it,  and  passed  across  the 

h  10* 


114  MOUFFLOU. 

piazzetta,  and  went  up  the  dark  staircase  of  Rosina's 
dwelling,  and  passed  through  the  weeping,  terrified 
children,  and  went  to  the  bedside  of  Lolo. 

Lolo  was  unconscious,  but  the  holy  man  touched  his 
little  body  and  limbs  with  the  sacred  oil,  and  prayed 
over  him,  and  then  stood  sorrowful  with  bowed  head. 

Lolo  had  had  his  first  communion  in  the  summer, 
and  in  his  preparation  for  it  had  shown  an  intelligence 
and  devoutness  that  had  won  the  priest's  gentle  heart. 

Standing  there,  the  holy  man  commended  the  inno- 
cent soul  to  God.  It  was  the  last  service  to  be  rendered 
to  him  save  that  very  last  of  all  when  the  funeral 
office  should  be  read  above  his  little  grave  among  the 
millions  of  nameless  dead  at  the  sepulchres  of  the 
poor  at  Trebbiano. 

All  was  still  as  the  priest's  voice  ceased ;  only  the 
sobs  of  the  mother  and  of  the  children  broke  the  still- 
ness as  they  kneeled ;  the  hand  of  Biondina  had  stolen 
into  Tasso's. 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  loud  scuffling  noise ;  hurrying 
feet  came  patter,  patter,  patter  up  the  stairs,  a  ball  of 
mud  and  dust  flew  over  the  heads  of  the  kneeling 
figures,  fleet  as  the  wind  Moufflon  dashed  through  the 
room  and  leaped  upon  the  bed. 

Lolo  opened  his  heavy  eyes,  and  a  sudden  light 
of  consciousness  gleamed  in  them  like  a  sunbeam. 
"Moufflon!"  he  murmured,  in  his  little  thin  faint 
voice.  The  dog  pressed  close  to  his  breast  and  kissed 
his  wasted  face. 

Moufflou  was  come  home ! 

And  Lolo  came  home  too,  for  death  let  go  its  hold 
upon  him.     Little  by  little,  very  faintly  and  flicker- 


MOUFFLOU.  115 

ingly  and  very  uncertainly  at  the  first,  life  returned  to 
the  poor  little  body,  and  reason  to  the  tormented, 
heated  little  brain.  Moufflou  was  his  physician; 
Moufflou,  who,  himself  a  skeleton  under  his  matted 
curls,  would  not  stir  from  his  side  and  looked  at  him 
all  day  long  with  two  beaming  brown  eyes  full  of 
unutterable  love. 

Lolo  was  happy ;  he  asked  no  questions, — was  too 
weak,  indeed,  even  to  wonder.  He  had  Moufflou ; 
that  was  enough. 

Alas !  though  they  dared  not  say  so  in  his  hearing, 
it  was  not  enough  for  his  elders.  His  mother  and 
Tasso  knew  that  the  poodle  had  been  sold  and  paid 
for ;  that  they  could  lay  no  claim  to  keep  him ;  and 
that  almost  certainly  his  purchaser  would  seek  him  out 
and  assert  his  indisputable  right  to  him.  And  then 
how  would  Lolo  ever  bear  that  second  parting? — 
Lolo,  so  weak  that  he  weighed  no  more  than  if  he  had 
been  a  little  bird. 

Moufflou  had,  no  doubt,  travelled  a  long  distance 
and  suffered  much.  He  was  but  skin  and  bone ;  he 
bore  the  marks  of  blows  and  kicks ;  his  once  silken 
hair  was  all  discolored  and  matted ;  he  had,  no  doubt, 
travelled  far.  But  then  his  purchaser  would  be  sure 
to  ask  for  him,  soon  or  late,  at  his  old  home;  and 
then  ?  Well,  then  if  they  did  not  give  him  up  them- 
selves, the  law  would  make  them. 

Rosina  Calabucci  and  Tasso,  though  they  dared  say 
nothing  before  any  of  the  children,  felt  their  hearts  in 
their  mouths  at  every  step  on  the  stair,  and  the  first 
interrogation  of  Tasso  every  evening  when  he  came 
from  his  work  was,  "  Has  any  one  come  for  Moufflou  ?" 


11$  MOUFFLOU. 

For  ten  days  no  one  came,  and  their  first  terrors  lulled 
a  little. 

On  the  eleventh  morning,  a  feast-day,  on  whicli 
Tasso  was  not  going  to  his  labors  in  the  Cascine,  there 
came  a  person,  with  a  foreign  look,  who  said  the  words 
they  so  much  dreaded  to  hear :  "  Has  the  poodle  that 
you  sold  to  an  English  gentleman  come  back  to  you  ?" 

Yes :  his  English  master  claimed  him  ! 

The  servant  said  that  they  had  missed  the  dog  in 
Kome  a  few  days  after  buying  him  and  taking  hira 
there ;  that  he  had  been  searched  for  in  vain,  and  that 
his  master  had  thought  it  possible  the  animal  might 
have  found  his  way  back  to  his  old  home :  there  had 
been  stories  of  such  wonderful  sagacity  in  dogs :  any- 
how, he  had  sent  for  him  on  the  chance ;  he  was  him- 
self back  on  the  Lung'  Arno.  The  servant  pulled 
from  his  pocket  a  chain,  and  said  his  orders  were  to 
take  the  poodle  away  at  once :  the  little  sick  gentleman 
had  fretted  very  much  about  his  loss. 

Tasso  heard  in  a  very  agony  of  despair.  To  take 
Moufflon  away  now  would  be  to  kill  Lolo, — Lolo  so 
feeble  still,  so  unable  to  understand,  so  passionately 
alive  to  every  sight  and  sound  of  Moufflon,  lying  for 
hours  together  motionless  with  his  hand  buried  in  the 
poodle's  curls,  saying  nothing,  only  smiling  now  and 
then,  and  murmuring  a  word  or  two  in  Moufflon's  ear. 

"  The  dog  did  come  home,"  said  Tasso,  at  length,  in 
a  low  voice ;  "  angels  must  have  shown  him  the  road, 
poor  beast !  From  Rome !  Only  to  think  of  it,  from 
Rome  I  And  he  a  dumb  thing !  I  tell  you  he  is  here, 
honestly :  so  will  you  not  trust  me  just  so  far  as  this? 
Will  you  let  me  go  with  you  and  speak  to  the  English 


MOUFFLOU.  117 

lord  before  you  take  the  dog  away  ?  I  have  a  little 
brother  sorely  ill " 

He  could  not  speak  more,  for  tears  that  choked  his 
voice. 

At  last  the  messenger  agreed  so  far  as  this.  Tasso 
might  go  first  and  see  the  master,  but  he  would  stay 
here  and  have  a  care  they  did  not  spirit  the  dog  away, 
— "  for  a  thousand  francs  were  paid  for  him,"  added 
the  man,  "  and  a  dog  that  can  come  all  the  way  from 
Rome  by  itself  must  be  an  uncanny  creature." 

Tasso  thanked  him,  went  up-stairs,  was  thankful 
that  his  mother  was  at  mass  and  could  not  dispute  with 
him,  took  the  ten  hundred-franc  notes  from  the  old 
oak  cassone,  and  with  them  in  his  breast-pocket  walked 
out  into  the  air.  He  was  but  a  poor  working  lad,  but 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  an  heroic  deed,  for 
self-sacrifice  is  always  heroic.  He  went  straightway 
to  the  hotel  where  the  English  milord  was,  and  when 
he  had  got  there  remembered  that  still  he  did  not 
know  the  name  of  Moufflon's  owner ;  but  the  people 
of  the  hotel  knew  him  as  Rosina  Calabucci's  son,  and 
guessed  what  he  wanted,  and  said  the  gentleman  who 
had  lost  the  poodle  was  within  up-stairs  and  they 
would  tell  him. 

Tasso  waited  some  half-hour  with  his  heart  beating 
sorely  against  the  packet  of  hundred-franc  notes.  At 
last  he  was  beckoned  up-stairs,  and  there  he  saw  a 
foreigner  with  a  mild  fair  face,  and  a  very  lovely  lady, 
and  a  delicate  child  who  was  lying  on  a  couch.  "Mouf- 
flon !  Where  is  Moufflon  ?"  cried  the  little  child,  im- 
patiently, as  he  saw  the  youth  enter. 

Tasso  took  his  hat  off,  and  stood  in  the  door-way, 


113  MOUFFLOU. 

an  embrowned,  healthy,  not  ungraceful  figure,  in  his 
working-clothes  of  rough  blue  stuff. 

"If  you  please,  most  illustrious,"  he  stammered, 
"  poor  Moufflou  has  come  home." 

The  child  gave  a  cry  of  delight;  the  gentleman  and 
lady  one  of  wonder.  Come  home !  All  the  way  from 
Eome! 

"  Yes,  he  has,  most  illustrious,"  said  Tasso,  gaining 
courage  and  eloquence;  "and  now  I  want  to  beg  some- 
thing of  you.  We  are  poor,  and  I  drew  a  bad  number, 
and  it  was  for  that  my  mother  sold  Moufflou.  For 
myself,  I  did  not  know  anything  of  it;  but  she  thought 
she  would  buy  my  substitute,  and  of  course  she  could ; 
but  Moufflou  is  come  home,  and  my  little  brother  Lolo, 
the  little  boy  your  most  illustrious  first  saw  playing 
with  the  poodle,  fell  ill  of  the  grief  of  losing  Mouf- 
flou, and  for  a  month  has  lain  saying  nothing  sensible, 
but  only  calling  for  the  dog,  and  my  old  grandfather 
died  of  worrying  himself  mad  over  the  lottery  num- 
bers, and  Lolo  was  so  near  dying  that  the  Blessed  Host 
had  been  brought,  and  the  holy  oil  had  been  put  on 
him,  when  all  at  once  there  rushes  in  Moufflou,  skin 
and  bone,  and  covered  with  mud,  and  at  the  sight  of 
him  Lolo  comes  back  to  his  senses,  and  that  is  now  ten 
days  ago,  and  though  Lolo  is  still  as  weak  as  a  new- 
born thing,  he  is  always  sensible,  and  takes  what  we 
give  him  to  eat,  and  lies  always  looking  at  Moufflou, 
and  smiling,  and  saying,  '  Moufflou  1  Moufflou  !'  and, 
most  illustrious,  I  know  well  you  have  bought  the 
dog,  and  the  law  is  with  you,  and  by  the  law  you 
claim  it;  but  I  thought  perhaps,  as  Lolo  loves  him  so, 
you  would  let  us  keep  the  dog,  and  would  take  back 


MOUFFLOU.  119 

the  thousand  francs,  and  myself  I  will  go  and  be  a 
soldier,  and  heaven  will  take  care  of  them  all  some 
how." 

Then  Tasso,  having  said  all  this  in  one  breathless, 
monotonous  recitative,  took  the  thousand  francs  out  of 
his  breast-pocket  and  held  them  out  timidly  towards 
the  foreign  gentleman,  who  motioned  them  aside  and 
stood  silent. 

"  Did  you  understand,  Victor,"  he  said,  at  last,  to 
his  little  son. 

The  child  hid  his  face  in  his  cushions. 

"  Yes,  I  did  understand  something :  let  Lolo  keep 
him ;  Moufflon  was  not  happy  with  me." 

But  he  burst  out  crying  as  he  said  it. 

Moufflon  had  run  away  from  him. 

Moufflou  had  never  loved  him,  for  all  his  sweet 
cakes  and  fond  caresses  and  platefuls  of  delicate  savory 
meats.  Moufflou  had  run  away  and  found  his  own 
road  over  two  hundred  miles  and  more  to  go  back  to 
some  little  hungry  children,  who  never  had  enough  to 
eat  themselves,  and  so,  certainly,  could  never  give 
enough  to  eat  to  the  dog.  Poor  little  boy !  He  was 
so  rich  and  so  pampered  and  so  powerful,  and  yet  he 
could  never  make  Moufflou  love  him  ! 

Tasso,  who  understood  nothing  that  was  said,  laid 
the  ten  hundred-franc  notes  down  on  a  table  near  him. 

"  If  you  would  take  them,  most  illustrious,  and  give 
me  back  what  my  mother  wrote  when  she  sold  Mouf- 
flou," he  said,  timidly,  "  I  would  pray  for  you  night 
and  day,  and  Lolo  would  too ;  and  as  for  the  dog,  we 
will  get  a  puppy  and  train  him  for  your  little  signorino; 
they  can  all  do  tricks,  more  or  less,  it  comes  by  nature ; 


120  MOUFFLOU. 

and  as  for  me,  I  will  go  to  the  army  willingly ;  it  is  not 
right  to  interfere  with  fate ;  my  old  grandfather  died 
mad  because  he  would  try  to  be  a  rich  man,  by  dream- 
ing about  it  and  pulling  destiny  by  the  ears,  as  if  she 
were  a  kicking  mule ;  only,  I  do  pray  of  you,  do  not 
take  away  Moufflon.  And  to  think  he  trotted  all  those 
miles  and  miles,  and  you  carried  him  by  train  too,  and 
he  never  could  have  seen  the  road,  and  he  has  no 
power  of  speech  to  ask " 

Tasso  broke  down  again  in  his  eloquence,  and  drew 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  wet  eyelashes. 

The  English  gentleman  was  not  altogether  unmoved. 

"  Poor  faithful  dog !"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  am 
afraid  we  were  very  cruel  to  him,  meaning  to  be  kind. 
No ;  we  will  not  claim  him,  and  I  do  not  think  you 
should  go  for  a  soldier ;  you  seem  so  good  a  lad,  and 
your  mother  must  need  you.  Keep  the  money,  ray 
boy,  and  in  payment  you  shall  train  up  the  puppy 
you  talk  of,  and  bring  him  to  my  little  boy.  I  will 
come  and  see  your  mother  and  Lolo  to-morrow.  All 
the  way  from  Rome !  What  wonderful  sagacity !  what 
matchless  fidelity !" 

You  can  imagine,  without  any  telling  of  mine,  the 
joy  that  reigned  in  Moufflon's  home  when  Tasso  re- 
turned thither  with  the  money  and  the  good  tidings 
both.  His  substitute  was  bought  without  a  day's  delay, 
and  Lolo  rapidly  recovered.  As  for  Moufflon,  he  could 
never  tell  them  his  troubles,  his  wanderings,  his  diffi- 
culties, his  perils;  he  could  never  tell  them  by  what 
miraculous  knowledge  he  had  found  his  way  aci'oss 
Italy,  from  the  gates  of  Rome  to  the  gates  of  Florence. 


MOUFFLOU.  121 

But  he  soon  grew  plump  again,  and  merry,  and  his 
love  for  Lolo  was  yet  greater  than  before. 

By  the  winter  all  the  family  went  to  live  on  an 
estate  near  Spezia  that  the  English  gentleman  had 
purchased,  and  there  Moufflon  was  happier  than  ever. 
The  little  English  boy  is  gaining  strength  in  the  soft 
air,  and  he  and  Lolo  are  great  friends,  and  play  with 
Moufflou  and  the  poodle  puppy  half  the  day  upon  the 
sunny  terraces  and  under  the  green  orange  boughs. 
Tasso  is  one  of  the  gardeners  there;  he  will  have  to 
serve  as  a  soldier  probably  in  some  category  or  another, 
but  he  is  safe  for  the  time,  and  is  happy.  Lolo,  whose 
lameness  will  always  exempt  him  from  military  ser- 
vice, when  he  grows  to  be  a  man  means  to  be  a  florist, 
and  a  great  one.  He  has  learned  to  read,  as  the  first 
step  on  the  road  of  his  ambition. 

"But  oh,  Moufflou,  how  did  you  find  your  way 
home  ?"  he  asks  the  dog  a  hundred  times  a  week. 

How  indeed ! 

No  one  ever  knew  how  Moufflou  had  made  that 
long  journey  on  foot,  so  many  weary  miles ;  but  be- 
yond a  doubt  he  had  done  it  alone  and  unaided,  for  if 
any  one  had  helped  him  they  would  have  come  home 
with  him  to  claim  the  reward. 

And  that  you  may  not  wonder  too  greatly  at  Mouf- 
flou's  miraculous  journey  on  his  four  bare  feet,  I  will 
add  here  two  facts  known  to  friends  of  mine,  of  whose 
truthfulness  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

One  concerns  a  French  poodle  who  was  purchased 

in  Paris  by  the  friend  of  my  friend,  and  brought  all 

the  way  from  Paris  to  Milan  by  train.     In  a  few  days 

after  his  arrival  in  Milan  the  poodle  was  missing;  and 

F  11 


122  MOUFFLOU. 

nothing  more  was  heard  or  known  of  him  until  many- 
weeks  later  his  quondam  owner  in  Paris,  on  opening 
his  door  one  morning,  found  the  dog  stretched  dying 
on  the  threshold  of  his  old  home. 

That  is  one  fact;  not  a  story,  mind  you,  a  fact. 

The  other  is  related  to  me  by  an  Italian  nobleman, 
who  in  his  youth  belonged  to  the  Guardia  Nobile  of 
Tuscany.  That  brilliant  corps  of  elegant  gentlemen 
owned  a  regimental  pet,  a  poodle  also,  a  fine  merry 
and  handsome  dog  of  its  kind;  and  the  officers  all 
loved  and  made  much  of  him,  except,  alas !  the  com- 
mandant of  the  regiment,  who  hated  him,  because 
when  the  officers  were  on  parade  or  riding  in  escort 
the  poodle  was  sure  to  be  jumping  and  frisking  about 
in  front  of  them.  It  is  difficult  to  see  where  the  harm 
of  this  was,  but  this  odious  old  martinet  vowed  ven- 
geance against  the  dog,  and,  being  of  course  all  pow- 
erful in  his  own  corps,  ordered  the  exile  from  Florence 
of  the  poor  fellow.  He  was  sent  to  a  farm  at  Prato, 
twenty  miles  off,  along  the  hills;  but  very  soon  he 
found  his  way  back  to  Florence.  He  was  then  sent 
to  Leghorn,  forty  miles  off,  but  in  a  week's  time  had 
returned  to  his  old  comrades.  He  was  then,  by  order 
of  his  unrelenting  foe,  shipped  to  the  island  of  Sar- 
dinia. How  he  did  it  no  one  ever  could  tell,  for  he 
was  carried  safely  to  Sardinia  and  placed  inland  there 
in  kind  custody,  but  in  some  wonderful  way  the  poor 
dog  must  have  found  out  the  sea  and  hidden  himself 
on  board  a  returning  vessel,  for  in  a  month's  time  from 
his  exile  to  the  island  he  was  back  again  among  his 
comrades  in  Florence.  Now,  what  I  have  to  tell  you 
almost  breaks  my  heart  to  say,  and  will,  I  think, 


MOVFFLOU.  123 

quite  break  yours  to  hear :  alas !  the  brute  of  a  com- 
mandant, untouched  by  such  marvellous  cleverness 
and  faithfulness,  was  his  enemy  to  the  bitter  end,  and, 
in  inexorable  hatred,  had  him  shot!  Oh,  when  you 
grow  to  manhood  and  have  power,  use  it  with  tender- 
ness! 


LAMPBLACK. 


A  POOR  black  paint  lay  very  unhappy  in  its  tube 
one  day  alone,  having  tumbled  out  of  an  artist's  color- 
box  and  lying  quite  unnoticed  for  a  year.  "  I  am  only 
Lampblack,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  The  master  never 
looks  at  me :  he  says  I  am  heavy,  dull,  lustreless,  use- 
less. I  wish  I  could  cake  and  dry  up  and  die,  as  poor 
Flakewhite  did  when  he  thought  she  turned  yellow 
and  deserted  her." 

But  Lampblack  could  not  die ;  he  could  only  lie  in 
his  tin  tube  and  pine,  like  a  silly,  sorrowful  thing  as 
he  was,  in  company  with  some  broken  bits  of  charcoal 
and  a  rusty  palette-knife.  The  master  never  touched 
him ;  month  after  month  passed  by,  and  he  was  never 
thought  of;  the  other  paints  had  all  their  turn  of  fair 
fortune,  and  went  out  into  the  world  to  great  acad- 
emies and  mighty  palaces,  transfigured  and  rejoicing 
in  a  thousand  beautiful  shapes  and  services.  But 
Lampblack  was  always  passed  over  as  dull  and  coarse, 
which  indeed  he  was,  and  knew  himself  to  be  so,  poor 
fellow,  which  made  it  all  the  worse.  "  You  are  only 
a  deposit !"  said  the  other  colors  to  him ;  and  he  felt 
that  it  was  disgraceful  to  be  a  deposit,  though  he  was 
not  quite  sure  what  it  meant. 

"If  only  I  were  happy  like  the  others!"  thought 
124 


ijAMpblack.  125 

poor,  sooty  Lampblack,  sorrowful  in  his  corner. 
"  There  is  Bistre,  now,  he  is  not  so  very  much  better- 
looking  than  I  am,  and  yet  they  can  do  nothing  with- 
out him,  whether  it  is  a  girl's  face  or  a  wimple  in  a 
river!" 

The  others  were  all  so  happy  in  this  beautiful, 
bright  studio,  whose  open  casements  were  hung  with 
myrtle  and  passion-flower,  and  whose  silence  was  filled 
with  the  singing  of  nightingales.  Cobalt,  with  a 
touch  or  two,  became  the  loveliness  of  summer  skies 
at  morning;  the  Lakes  and  Carmines  bloomed  in  a 
thousand  exquisite  flowers  and  fancies ;  the  Chromes 
and  Ochres  (mere  dull  earths)  were  allowed  to  spread 
themselves  in  sheets  of  gold  that  took  the  shine  of  the 
sun  into  the  darkest  places;  Umber,  a  sombre  and 
gloomy  thing,  could  lurk  yet  in  a  child's  curls  and 
laugh  in  a  child's  smiles;  whilst  all  the  families  of  the 
Vermilions,  the  Blues,  the  Greens,  lived  in  a  perpetual 
glory  of  sunset  or  sunrise,  of  ocean  waves  or  autumn 
woods,  of  kingly  pageant  or  of  martial  pomp. 

It  was  very  hard.  Poor  Lampblack  felt  as  if  his 
very  heart  would  break,  above  all  when  he  thought  of 
pretty  little  Rose  Madder,  whom  he  loved  dearly,  and 
who  never  would  even  look  at  him,  because  she  was  so 
very  proud,  being  herself  always  placed  in  nothing  less 
than  rosy  clouds,  or  the  hearts  of  roses,  or  something  as 
fair  and  spiritual. 

"  I  am  only  a  wretched  deposit !"  sighed  Lampblack, 
and  the  rusty  palette-knife  grumbled  back,  "  My  own 
life  has  been  ruined  in  cleaning  dirty  brushes,  and  see 
what  the  gratitude  of  men  and  brushes  is !" 

"  But  at  least  you  have  been  of  use  once ;  but  I 
11* 


126  LAMPBLACK. 

never  am, — never !"  said  Lampblack,  wearily ;  and 
indeed  he  had  been  there  so  long  that  the  spiders 
had  spun  their  silver  fleeces  all  about  him,  and  he 
was  growing  as  gray  as  an  old  bottle  does  in  a  dark 
cellar. 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  studio  opened,  and 
there  came  a  flood  of  light,  and  the  step  of  a  man  was 
heard:  the  hearts  of  all  the  colors  jumped  for  joy, 
because  the  step  was  that  of  their  magician,  who  out 
of  mere  common  clays  and  ground  ores  could  raise 
them  at  a  touch  into  splendors  of  the  gods  and  divini- 
ties immortal. 

Only  the  heart  of  poor  dusty  Lampblack  could  not 
beat  a  throb  the  more,  because  he  was  always  left  alone 
and  never  was  thought  worthy  even  of  a  glance.  He 
could  not  believe  his  senses  when  this  afternoon — oh, 
miracle  and  ecstasy ! — -the  step  of  the  master  crossed  the 
floor  to  the  obscured  corner  where  he  lay  under  his 
spiders'  webs,  and  the  hand  of  the  master  touched  him. 
Lampblack  felt  sick  and  faint  with  rapture.  Had  rec- 
ognition come  at  last  ? 

The  master  took  him  up :  "  You  will  do  for  this 
work,"  he  said ;  and  Lampblack  was  borne  trembling 
to  an  easel.  The  colors,  for  once  in  their  turn  neglected, 
crowded  together  to  watch,  looking  in  their  bright  tin 
tubes  like  rows  of  little  soldiers  in  armor. 

"  It  is  the  old  dull  Deposit,"  they  murmured  to  one 
another,  and  felt  contemptuous,  yet  were  curious,  as 
scornful  people  often  will  be. 

"  But  I  am  going  to  be  glorious  and  great,"  thought 
Lampblack,  and  his  heart  swelled  high ;  for  never  more 
would  they  be  able  to  hurl  the  name  of  Deposit  at  him, 


"old  deposit  is  going  to  be  a  sign  post." 


LAMPBLACK.  127 

a  name  which  hurt  him  none  the  less,  but  all  the  more 
indeed,  because  it  was  unintelligible. 

"  You  will  do  for  this  work,"  said  the  master,  and 
let  Lampblack  out  of  his  metal  prison-house  into  the 
light  and  touched  him  with  the  brush  that  was  the 
wand  of  magic. 

"What  am  I  going  to  be?"  wondered  Lampblack, 
as  he  felt  himself  taken  on  to  a  large  piece  of  deal 
board,  so  large  that  he  felt  he  must  be  going  to  make 
the  outline  of  an  athlete  or  the  shadows  of  a  tempest 
at  the  least. 

Himself  he  could  not  tell  what  he  was  becoming: 
he  was  happy  enough  and  grand  enough  only  to  be 
employed,  and,  as  he  was  being  used,  began  to  dream  a 
thousand  things  of  all  the  scenes  he  would  be  in,  and 
all  the  hues  that  he  would  wear,  and  all  the  praise  that 
he  would  hear  when  he  went  out  into  that  wonderful 
great  world  of  which  his  master  was  an  idol.  From 
his  secret  dreams  he  was  harshly  roused ;  all  the  colors 
were  laughing  and  tittering  round  him  till  the  little  tin 
helmets  they  wore  shook  with  their  merriment. 

"  Old  Deposit  is  going  to  be  a  sign-post,"  they  cried 
to  one  another  so  merrily  that  the  spiders,  who  are  not 
companionable  creatures,  felt  themselves  compelled  to 
come  to  the  doors  of  their  dens  and  chuckle  too.  A 
sign-post!  Lampblack,  stretched  out  in  an  ecstasy 
upon  the  board,  roused  himself  shivering  from  his 
dreams,  and  gazed  at  his  own  metamorphosis.  He 
had  been  made  into  seven  letters,  thus : 

B  A  N  D  I  T  A. 

This  word  in  the  Italian  country,  where  the  English 


128  LAMPBLACK. 

painter's  studio  was,  means,  Do  not  trespass,  do  not 
shoot,  do  not  show  yourself  here :  anything,  indeed, 
that  is  peremptory  and  uncivil  to  all  trespassers.  In 
these  seven  letters,  outspread  upon  the  board,  was 
Lampblack  crucified  I 

Farewell,  ambitious  hopes  and  happy  dreams !  He 
had  been  employed  to  paint  a  sign-board,  a  thing 
stoned  by  the  boys,  blown  on  by  the  winds,  gnawed  by 
the  rats,  and  drenched  with  the  winter's  rains.  Better 
the  dust  and  the  cobwebs  of  his  old  corner  than  such 
shame  as  this ! 

But  help  was  there  none.  His  fate  was  fixed.  He 
was  dried  with  a  drench  of  turpentine,  hastily  clothed 
in  a  coat  of  copal,  and,  ere  he  yet  was  fully  aware  of  all 
his  misery,  w^as  being  borne  away  upon  the  great  board 
out  of  doors  and  handed  to  the  gardener.  For  the 
master  was  a  hasty  and  ardent  man,  and  had  been 
stung  into  impatience  by  the  slaughter  of  some  favor- 
ite blue  thrushes  in  his  ilex-trees  that  day,  and  so  in 
his  haste  had  chosen  to  do  journeyman's  work  himself. 
Lampblack  was  carried  out  of  the  studio  for  the  last 
time,  and  as  the  door  closed  on  him  he  heard  all  the 
colors  laughing,  and  the  laugh  of  little  Rose  Madder 
was  highest  of  all  as  she  cried  to  Naples  Yellow,  who 
was  a  dandy  and  made  court  to  her,  "  Poor  old  ugly 
Deposit !  He  will  grumble  to  the  owls  and  the  bats 
now !" 

The  door  shut,  shutting  him  out  forever  from  all 
that  joyous  company  and  palace  of  fair  visions,  and 
the  rough  hands  of  the  gardener  grasped  him  and  car- 
ried him  to  the  edge  of  the  great  garden,  where  the 
wall  overlooked  the  public  road,  and  there  fastened 


LAMPBLACK.  129 

hira  up  on  high  with  a  band  of  iron  round  the  trunk 
of  a  tree. 

That  night  it  rained  heavily,  and  the  north  wind 
blew,  and  there  was  thunder  also.  Lampblack,  out  in 
the  storm  without  his  tin  house  to  shelter  him,  felt  that 
of  all  creatures  wretched  on  the  face  of  the  earth  there 
was  not  one  so  miserable  as  he. 

A  sign-board  !     Nothing  but  a  sign-board  ! 

The  degradation  of  a  color,  created  for  art  and  artists, 
could  not  be  deeper  or  more  grievous  anywhere.  Oh, 
how  he  sighed  for  his  tin  tube  and  the  quiet  nook  with 
the  charcoal  and  the  palette-knife  ! 

He  had  been  unhappy  there  indeed,  but  still  had  had 
always  some  sort  of  liope  to  solace  him, — some  chance 
still  remaining  that  one  day  fortune  might  smile  and 
he  be  allowed  to  be  at  least  the  lowest  stratum  of  some 
immortal  work. 

But  now  hope  was  there  none.  His  doom,  his  end, 
were  fixed  and  changeless.  Nevermore  could  he  be 
anything  but  what  he  was  ;  and  change  there  could  be 
none  till  weather  and  time  should  have  done  their 
work  on  him,  and  he  be  rotting  on  the  wet  earth,  a 
shattered  and  worm-eaten  wreck. 

Day  broke, — a  gloomy,  misty  morning. 

From  where  he  was  crucified  upon  the  tree-trunk  he 
could  no  longer  even  see  his  beloved  home  the  studio : 
lie  could  only  see  a  dusky,  intricate  tangle  of  branches 
all  about  him,  and  below  the  wall  of  flint,  with  the 
Banksia  that  grew  on  it,  and  the  hard  muddy  highway, 
drenched  from  the  storm  of  the  night. 

A  man  passed  in  a  miller's  cart,  and  stood  up  and 
swore  at  him,  because  the  people  had  liked  to  come 


130  LAMPBLACK. 

and  shoot  aud  trap  the  birds  of  the  master's  wooded 
gardens,  aud  knew  that  they  must  not  do  it  now. 

A  slug  crawled  over  him,  and  a  snail  also.  A  wood- 
pecker hammered  at  him  with  its  strong  beak.  A  boy 
went  by  under  the  wall  and  threw  stones  at  him,  and 
called  him  names.  The  rain  poiu*ed  down  again 
heavily.  He  thought  of  the  happy  painting-room, 
Avhere  it  had  seemed  always  summer  and  always  sun- 
shine, and  where  now  in  the  forenoon  all  the  colors 
were  marshalling  in  the  pageantry  of  the  Arts,  as  he 
had  seen  them  do  hundreds  of  times  from  his  lone 
corner.  All  the  misery  of  the  past  looked  happiness 
now. 

"  If  I  were  only  dead,  like  Flakewhite,"  he  thought ; 
but  the  stones  only  bruised,  they  did  not  kill  him :  and 
the  iron  band  only  hurt,  it  did  not  stifle  him.  For  what- 
ever suffers  very  much,  has  always  so  much  strength 
to  continue  to  exist.  And  almost  his  loyal  heart  blas- 
phemed and  cursed  the  master  who  had  brought  him  to 
such  a  fate  as  this. 

The  day  grew  apace,  and  noon  went  by,  and  with  it 
the  rain  passed.  The  sun  shone  out  once  more,  and 
Lampblack,  even  imprisoned  and  wretched  as  he  was, 
could  not  but  see  how  beautiful  the  wet  leaves  looked, 
and  the  gossamers  all  hung  with  rain-drops,  and  the 
blue  sky  that  shone  through  the  boughs ;  for  he  had 
not  lived  with  a  great  artist  all  his  days  to  be  blind, 
even  in  pain,  to  the  loveliness  of  nature.  The  sun 
came  out,  and  with  it  some  little  brown  birds  tripped 
out  too, — very  simple  and  plain  in  their  costumes  and 
ways,  but  which  Lampblack  knew  were  the  loves  of 
the  poets,  for  he  had  heard  the  master  call  them  sc 


LAMPBLACK.  \^\ 

many  times  in  summer  nights.  The  little  brown  birds 
came  tripping  and  pecking  about  on  the  grass  under- 
neath his  tree-trunk,  and  then  flew  on  the  top  of  the 
wall,  which  was  covered  with  Banksia  and  many  other 
creepers.  The  brown  birds  sang  a  little  song,  for  though 
they  sing  most  in  the  moonlight  they  do  sing  by  day 
too,  and  sometimes  all  day  long.  And  what  they  sung 
was  this  : 

"  Oh,  how  happy  we  are,  how  happy  !  No  nets  dare 
now  be  spread  for  us,  no  cruel  boys  dare  climb,  and  no 
cruel  shooters  fire.  We  are  safe,  quite  safe,  and  the 
sweet  summer  has  begun  !" 

Lampblack  listened,  and  even  in  his  misery  was 
touched  and  soothed  by  the  tender  liquid  sounds  that 
these  little  throats  poured  out  among  the  light-yellow 
bloom  of  the  Banksia  flowers.  And  when  one  of  the 
brown  birds  came  and  sat  on  a  branch  by  him,  sway- 
ing itself  and  drinking  the  rain-drops  off  a  leaf,  he 
ventured  to  ask,  as  well  as  he  could  for  the  iron  that 
strangled  him,  why  they  were  so  safe,  and  what  made 
them  so  happy. 

The  bird  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?"  he  said.     "  It  is  you  !'' 

"  I !"  echoed  Lampblack,  and  could  say  no  more, 
for  he  feared  that  the  bird  was  mocking  him,  a  poor, 
silly,  rusty  black  paint,  only  spread  out  to  rot  in  fair 
weather  and  foul.  What  good  could  he  do  to  any 
creature  ? 

"  You,"  repeated  the  nightingale.  "  Did  you  not 
see  that  man  under  the  wall  ?  He  had  a  gun ;  we 
should  have  been  dead  but  for  you.  We  will  come 
and  sing  to  you  all  night  long,  since  you  like  it ;  and 


132  LAMPBLACK. 

when  we  go  to  bed  at  dawn,  I  will  tell  my  cousins  the 
thrushes  and  merles  to  take  our  places,  so  that  you 
shall  hear  somebody  singing  near  you  all  the  day  long." 

Lampblack  was  silent. 

His  heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  was  of  use,  after  all  ? 

"  Can  it  be  true  ?"  he  said,  timidly. 

"  Quite  true,"  said  the  nightingale. 

"  Then  the  master  knew  best,"  thought  Lampblack. 

Never  would  he  adorn  a  palace  or  be  adored  upon 
an  altar.  His  high  hopes  were  all  dead,  like  last  year's 
leaves.  The  colors  in  the  studio  had  all  the  glories  of 
the  world,  but  he  was  of  use  in  it,  after  all ;  he  could 
save  these  little  lives.  He  was  poor  and  despised, 
bruised  by  stones  and  drenched  by  storms ;  yet  was  he 
content,  nailed  there  upon  his  tree,  for  he  had  not  been 
made  quite  in  vain. 

The  sunset  poured  its  red  and  golden  splendors 
through  the  darkness  of  the  boughs,  and  the  birds 
sang  all  together,  shouting  for  joy  and  praising  God. 


THE   CHILD   OF    URBINO. 


It  was  in  the  year  of  grace  1490,  in  the  reign  of 
Guidobaldo,  Lord  of  Montefeltro,  Duke  of  Urbino, — • 
the  year,  by  the  way,  of  the  birth  of  that  most  illus- 
trious and  gracious  lady  Vittoria  Colonna. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  in  that  mountain- 
eyrie  beloved  of  the  Muses  and  coveted  of  the  Borgia, 
that  a  little  boy  stood  looking  out  of  a  grated  case- 
ment into  the  calm  sunshiny  day.  He  was  a  pretty 
boy,  with  hazel  eyes,  and  fair  hair  cut  straight  above 
his  brows ;  he  wore  a  little  blue  tunic  with  some  em- 
broidery about  the  throat  of  it,  and  had  in  his  hand  a 
little  round  flat  cap  of  the  same  color.  He  was  sad  of 
heart  this  merry  morning,  for  a  dear  friend  of  his,  a 
friend  ten  years  older  than  himself,  had  gone  the  night 
before  on  a  journey  over  the  mountains  to  Maestro 
Francesco  at  Bologna,  there  to  be  bound  apprentice  to 
that  gentle  artist.  This  friend,  Timoteo  della  Vita, 
had  been  very  dear  to  the  child,  had  played  with  him 
and  jested  with  him,  made  him  toys  and  told  him 
stories,  and  he  was  very  full  of  pain  at  Timoteo's  loss. 
Yet  he  told  himself  not  to  mind,  for  had  not  Timoteo 
said  to  him,  "  I  go  as  goldsmith's  'prentice  to  the  best 
of  men ;  but  I  mean  to  become  a  painter"  ?  And  the 
child  understood  that  to  be  a  painter  was  to  be  the 
12  133 


134  THE   CHILD   OF   V RBI  NO. 

greatest  and  wisest  the  world  held  ;  he  quite  understood 
that,  for  he  was  Raffaelle,  the  seven-year-old  son  of 
Signor  Giovanni  Sanzio. 

He  was  a  very  happy  little  boy  here  in  this  stately  yet 
homely  and  kindly  Urbino,  where  his  people  had  come 
for  refuge  when  the  lances  of  Malatesta  had  ravaged 
and  ruined  their  homestead.  He  had  the  dearest 
old  grandfather  in  all  the  world;  he  had  a  loving 
mother,  and  he  had  a  father  who  was  very  tender  to 
him,  and  painted  him  among  the  angels  of  heaven,  and 
was  always  full  of  pleasant  conceits  and  admirable 
learning,  and  such  true  love  of  art  that  the  child 
breathed  it  with  every  breath,  as  he  could  breathe  the 
sweetness  of  a  cowslip-bell  when  he  held  one  in  his 
hands  up  to  his  nostrils. 

It  was  good  in  those  days  to  live  in  old  Urbino.  It 
was  not,  indeed,  so  brilliant  a  place  as  it  became  in  a 
later  day,  when  Ariosto  came  there,  and  Bembo  and 
Castiglione  and  many  another  witty  and  learned  gentle- 
man, and  the  Courts  of  Love  were  held  with  ingenious 
rhyme  and  pretty  sentiment,  sad  only  for  wantonness. 
But,  if  not  so  brilliant,  it  was  homelier,  simpler,  full 
of  virtue,  with  a  wise  peace  and  tranquillity  that 
joined  hands  with  a  stout  courage.  The  burgher  was 
good  friends  with  his  prince,  and  knew  that  in  any 
trouble  or  perplexity  he  could  go  up  to  the  palace,  or 
stop  the  duke  in  the  market-place,  and  be  sure  of 
sympathy  and  good  counsel.  There  were  a  genuine 
love  of  beautiful  things,  a  sense  of  public  duty  and 
of  public  spirit,  a  loyal  temper  and  a  sage  contentment, 
among  the  good  people  of  that  time,  which  made  them 
happy  and  prosperous. 


THE   CHILD    OF    URBINO.  I35 

All  work  was  solidly  and  thoroughly  done,  living 
was  cheap,  and  food  good  and  plentiful,  much  better 
and  more  plentiful  than  it  is  now;  in  the  fine  old 
houses  every  stone  was  sound,  every  bit  of  ornament 
well  wrought,  men  made  their  nests  to  live  in  and  to 
pass  to  their  children  and  children's  children  after 
them,  and  had  their  own  fancies  and  their  own  tradi- 
tions recorded  in  the  iron-work  of  their  casements  and 
in  the  wood-work  of  their  doors.  They  had  their 
happy  day  of  honest  toil  from  matins  bell  to  evensong, 
and  then  walked  out  or  sat  about  in  the  calm  evening 
air  and  looked  down  on  the  plains  below  that  were 
rich  with  grain  and  fruit  and  woodland,  and  talked 
and  laughed  among  each  other,  and  were  content  with 
their  own  pleasant,  useful  lives,  not  burnt  up  with 
envy  of  desire  to  be  some  one  else,  as  in  our  sickly, 
hurrying  time  most  people  are. 

Yes,  life  must  have  been  very  good  in  those  old 
days  in  old  Urbino,  better  than  it  is  anywhere  in 
ours. 

Can  you  not  picture  to  yourself  good,  shrewd,  wise 
Giovanni  Sanzio,  with  his  old  father  by  his  side,  and 
his  little  son  running  before  him,  in  the  holy  evening 
time  of  a  feast-day,  with  the  deep  church-bells  swaying 
above-head,  and  the  last  sun-rays  smiting  the  frescoed 
walls,  the  stone  bastions,  the  blazoned  standard  on  the 
castle  roof,  the  steep  city  rocks  shelving  down  into  the 
greenery  of  cherry-orchard  and  of  pear-tree?  I  can, 
whenever  I  shut  my  eyes  and  recall  Urbino  as  it  was ; 
and  would  it  had  been  mine  to  live  then  in  that  moun- 
tain-home, and  meet  that  divine  child  going  along  his 
happy  smiling  way,  garnering  unconsciously  in  his  in- 


136  THE   CHILD    OF   URBING. 

fant  soul  all  the  beautiful  sights  and  sounds  around 
him,  to  give  them  in  his  manhood  to  the  world. 

"  Let  him  alone :  he  will  paint  all  this  some  day," 
said  his  wise  father,  who  loved  to  think  that  his  brushes 
and  his  colors  would  pass  in  time  to  Raffaelle,  whose 
hands  would  be  stronger  to  hold  them  than  his  own 
had  been.  And,  whether  he  would  ever  paint  it  or 
not,  the  child  never  tired  of  thus  looking  from  his  eyrie 
on  the  rocks  and  counting  all  that  passed  below  through 
the  blowing  corn  under  the  leafy  orchard  boughs. 

There  were  so  many  things  to  see  in  Urbino  in  that 
time,  looking  so  over  the  vast  green  valley  below:  a 
clump  of  spears,  most  likely,  as  men-at-arms  rode 
through  the  trees ;  a  string  of  market-folk  bringing  in 
the  produce  of  the  orchards  or  the  fields;  perchance 
a  red-robed  cardinal  on  a  white  mule  with  glittering 
housings,  behind  him  a  sumpter  train  rich  with  bag- 
gage, furniture,  gold  and  silver  plate ;  maybe  the  duke's 
hunting-party  going  out  or  coming  homeward  with 
caracoling  steeds,  beautiful  hounds  straining  at  their 
leash,  hunting-horns  sounding  merrily  over  the  green 
country ;  maybe  a  band  of  free  lances,  with  plumes 
tossing,  steel  glancing,  bannerets  fluttering  against  the 
sky ;  or  maybe  a  quiet  gray-robed  string  of  monks  or 
pilgrims  singing  the  hymn  sung  before  Jerusalem, 
treading  the  long  lush  grass  with  sandalled  feet,  com- 
ing towards  the  city,  to  crowd  slowly  and  gladly  up  its 
rocky  height.  Do  you  not  wish  with  me  you  could 
stand  in  the  window  with  Raffaelle  to  see  the  earth  as 
it  was  then  ? 

No  doubt  the  good  folks  of  Urbino  laughed  at  him 
often  for  a  little  moonstruck  dreamer,  so  many  hours 


THE   CHILD    OF   U RBI  NO.  137 

did  he  stand  looking,  looking, — only  looking, — as  eyes 
have  a  right  to  do  that  see  well  and  not  altogether  as 
others  see. 

Happily  for  him,  the  days  of  his  childhood  were 
times  of  peace,  and  he  did  not  behold,  as  his  father  had 
done,  the  torches  light  np  the  street  and  the  flames 
devour  the  homesteads. 

At  this  time  Urbino  was  growing  into  fame  for  its 
pottery-work :  those  big  dishes  and  bowls,  those  mar- 
riage-plates and  pharmacy-jars,  which  it  made,  were 
beginning  to  rival  the  products  of  its  neighbor  Gubbio, 
and  when  its  duke  wished  to  send  a  bridal  gift,  or  a 
present  on  other  festal  occasions,  he  oftenest  chose  some 
service  or  some  rare  platter  of  his  own  Urbino  ware. 
Now,  pottery  had  not  then  taken  the  high  place  among 
the  arts  of  Italy  that  it  was  destined  very  soon  to  do. 
As  you  will  learn  when  you  are  older,  after  the  Greeks 
and  the  Christians  had  exhausted  all  that  was  beautiful 
in  shape  and  substance  of  clay  vases,  the  art  seemed  to 
die  out,  and  the  potters  and  the  pottery-painters  died 
with  it,  or  at  any  rate  went  to  sleep  for  a  great  many 
centuries,  whilst  soldiers  and  prelates,  nobles  and  mer- 
cenaries, were  trampling  to  and  fro  all  over  the  land  and 
disputing  it,  and  carrying  fire  and  torch,  steel  and  des- 
olation, with  them  in  their  quarrels  and  covetousness. 
But  now,  the  reign  of  the  late  good  duke,  great  Fede- 
rigo,  having  been  favorable  to  the  Marches  (as  we  call 
his  province  now),  the  potters  and  pottery-painters,  with 
other  gentle  craftsmen,  had  begun  to  look  up  again, 
and  the  beneficent  fires  of  their  humble  ovens  had  be- 
gun to  burn  in  Castel  Durante,  in  Pesaro,  in  Faenza, 
in  Gubbio,  and  in  Urbino  itself.  The  great  days  had 
12* 


X38  '^^E  CHILD   OF   URBINO. 

not  yet  come :  Maestro  Giorgio  was  but  a  youngster, 
and  Orazio  Fontane  not  born,  nor  the  clever  baker 
Prestino  either,  nor  the  famous  Fra  Xanto ;  but  there 
was  a  Don  Giorgio  even  then  in  Gubbio,  of  whose 
work,  alas !  one  plate  now  at  the  Louvre  is  all  we  have ; 
and  here  in  the  ducal  city  on  tlie  hill  rich  and  noble 
things  were  already  being  made  in  the  stout  and  lustrous 
majolica  that  was  destined  to  acquire  later  on  so  wide  a 
ceramic  fame.  Jars  and  bowls  and  platters,  oval  dishes 
and  ewers  and  basins,  and  big-bodied,  metal-welded 
pharmacy-vases  were  all  made  and  painted  at  Urbino 
whilst  RafFaelle  Sanzio  was  running  about  on  rosy  in- 
fantine feet.  There  was  a  master-potter  of  the  Monte- 
feltro  at  that  time,  one  Maestro  Benedetto  Ronconi, 
whose  name  had  not  become  world-renowned  as  Orazio 
Fontane's  and  Maestro  Giorgio's  did  in  the  following 
century,  yet  who  in  that  day  enjoyed  tie  honor  of  all 
the  duchy,  and  did  things  very  rare  and  fine  in  the 
Urbino  ware.  He  lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
Giovanni  Sanzio,  and  was  a  gray-haired,  handsome, 
somewhat  stern  and  pompous  man,  now  more  than 
middle-aged,  who  had  one  beauteous  daughter,  by 
name  Pacifica.  He  cherished  Pacifica  well,  but  not 
so  well  as  he  cherished  the  things  he  wrought, — the 
deej)  round  nuptial  plates  and  oval  massive  dishes  t:  at 
he  painted  with  Scriptural  stories  and  strange  devices, 
and  landscapes  such  as  those  he  saw  around,  and  flow- 
ing scrolls  with  Latin  mottoes  in  black  letters,  and 
which,  when  thus  painted,  he  consigned  with  an  anx- 
iously-beating heart  to  the  trial  of  the  ovens,  and 
which  sometimes  came  forth  from  the  trial  all  cracked 
and  bluired  and  marred,  and  sometimes  emerged  in 


THE   CHILD   OF   URBINO.  I39 

triumph  and  came  into  his  trembling  hands  iridescent 
und  lovely  with  those  lustrous  and  opaline  hues  which 
we  admire  in  them  to  this  day  as  the  especial  glory  of 
maj  lieu 

Maestro  Benedetto  was  an  ambitious  and  vain  man, 
and  had  had  a  hard,  laborious  manhood,  working  at 
his  potter's  wheel  and  painter's  brush  before  Urbino 
ware  was  prized  in  Italy  or  even  in  the  duchy.  Now, 
indeed,  he  was  esteemed  at  his  due  worth,  and  his  work 
was  so  also,  and  he  was  passably  rich,  and  known  as 
a  good  artist  beyond  the  Marches;  but  there  was  a 
younger  man  over  at  Gubbio,  the  Don  Giorgio  who 
was  precursor  of  unequalled  Maestro  Giorgio  Andreoli, 
who  surpassed  him,  and  made  him  sleep  o'  nights  on 
thorns,  as  envy  makes  all  those  to  do  who  take  her  as 
their  bedfellow. 

The  house  of  Maestro  Benedetto  was  a  long  stone 
building,  with  a  loggia  at  the  back  all  overclimbed 
by  hardy  rose-trees,  and  looking  on  a  garden  that  was 
more  than  half  an  orchard,  and  in  which  grew  abun- 
dantly pear-trees,  plum-trees,  and  wood  strawberries. 
The  lancet  windows  of  his  workshop  looked  on  all 
this  quiet  greenery.  There  were  so  many  such  pleas- 
ant workshops  then  in  the  land, — calm,  godly,  home- 
like places,  filled  from  without  with  song  of  birds  and 
scent  of  herbs  and  blossoms.  Nowadays  men  work  in 
crowded,  stinking  cities,  in  close  factory  chambers;  and 
their  work  is  barren  as  their  lives  are. 

The  little  son  of  neighbor  Sanzio  ran  in  and  out  this 
bigger,  wider  house  and  garden  of  Maestro  Benedetto 
at  his  pleasure,  for  the  maiden  Pacifica  was  always 
glad  to  see  him,  and  even  the  sombre  master-potter 


140  y^J5   CHILD    OF   URBINO. 

would  unbend  to  him  and  show  him  how  to  lay  the 
color  on  to  the  tremulous  fugitive  unbaked  biscuit. 

Pacifica  was  a  lovely  young  woman  of  some  seven- 
teen or  eighteen  summers ;  and  perhaps  RafFaelle  was 
but  remembering  her  when  he  painted  in  his  after- 
years  the  face  of  his  Madonna  di  San  Sisto.  He  loved 
her  as  he  loved  everything  that  was  beautiful  and  every 
one  who  was  kind;  and  almost  better  than  his  own 
beloved  father's  studio,  almost  better  than  his  dear  old 
grandsire's  cheerful  little  shop,  did  he  love  this  grave, 
silent,  sweet-smelling,  sun-pierced,  shadowy  old  house 
of  Maestro  Benedetto. 

Maestro  Benedetto  had  four  apprentices  or  pupils 
in  that  time  learning  to  become  figuli,  but  the  one 
whom  Eaflaelle  liked  the  most  (and  Pacifica  too)  was 
one  Luca  Torelli,  of  a  village  above  in  the  mountains, 
— a  youth  with  a  noble  dark  pensive  beauty  of  his  own, 
and  a  fearless  gait,  and  a  supple,  tall,  slender  figure 
that  would  have  looked  well  in  the  light  coat  of  mail 
and  silken  doublet  of  a  man-at-arms.  In  sooth,  the 
spirit  of  Messer  Luca  was  more  made  for  war  and  its 
risks  and  glories  than  for  the  wheel  and  the  brush  of 
the  bottega ;  but  he  had  loved  Pacifica  ever  since  he 
had  come  down  one  careless  holy-day  into  Urbino, 
and  had  bound  himself  to  her  father's  service  in  a 
heedless  moment  of  eagerness  to  breathe  the  same  air 
and  dwell  under  the  same  roof  as  she  did.  He  had 
gained  little  for  his  pains :  to  see  her  at  mass  and  at 
raeal-times,  now  and  tKen  to  be  allowed  to  bring  water 
from  the  well  for  her  or  feed  her  pigeons,  to  see  her 
gray  gown  go  down  between  the  orchard  trees  and 
catch  the  sunlight,  to  hear  the  hum  of  her  spinning- 


THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO.  l^\ 

wheel,  the  thrum  of  her  viol, — this  was  the  uttermost 
he  got  of  joy  in  two  long  years ;  and  how  he  envied 
Ratifaelle  running  along  the  stone  floor  of  the  loggia 
to  leap  into  her  arms,  to  hang  upon  her  skirts,  to  pick 
the  summer  fruit  with  her,  and  sort  with  her  the 
autumn  herbs  for  drying ! 

"  I  love  Pacifica !"  he  would  say,  with  a  groan,  to 
RaiFaelle  ;  and  Raifaelle  would  say,  with  a  smile,  "Ah, 
Luca,  so  do  I !" 

"  It  is  not  the  same  thing,  my  dear,"  sighed  Luca ; 
"  I  want  her  for  my  wife." 

"  I  shall  have  no  wife ;  I  shall  marry  myself  to 
painting,"  said  RafFaelle,  with  a  little  grave  wise  face 
looking  out  from  under  the  golden  roof  of  his  fair  hair. 
For  he  was  never  tired  of  watching  his  father  painting 
the  saints  with  their  branch  of  palm  on  their  ground 
of  blue  or  of  gold,  or  Maestro  Benedetto  making  the 
dull  clay  glow  with  angels'  wings  and  prophets'  robes 
and  holy  legends  told  in  color. 

Now,  one  day  as  KafFaelle  was  standing  and  look- 
ing thus  at  his  favorite  window  in  the  potter's  house, 
his  friend  the  handsome,  black-browed  Luca,  who 
Avas  also  standing  there,  did  sigh  so  deeply  and  so 
deplorably  that  the  child  was  startled  from  his 
dreams. 

"  Good  Luca,  what  ails  you  ?"  he  murmured,  wind- 
ing his  arms  about  the  young  man's  knees. 

"Oh,  'Faello!"  mourned  the  apprentice,  woefully. 
"  Here  is  such  a  chance  to  win  the  hand  of  Pacifica  if 
only  I  had  talent, — such  talent  as  that  Giorgio  of 
Gubbio  has !  If  the  good  Lord  had  only  gifted  me 
with  a  master'n  skill,  instead  of  all  this  bodily  strength 


142  THE   CHILD    OF   V  RBI  NO. 

and  sinew,  like  a  wild  hog  of  the  woods,  which  avails 
me  nothing  here !" 

"  "What  chance  is  it?"  asked  Raffaelle,  "and  what  is 
there  new  about  Pacifica?  She  told  me  nothing,  and 
I  was  with  her  an  hour." 

"  Dear  simple  one,  she  knows  nothing  of  it,"  said 
Luca,  heaving  another  tremendous  sigh  from  his  heart's 
deepest  depths.  "You  must  know  that  a  new  order 
has  come  in  this  very  forenoon  from  the  duke ;  he 
wishes  a  dish  and  a  jar  of  the  very  finest  and  firmest 
majolica  to  be  painted  with  the  story  of  Esther,  and 
made  ready  in  three  months  from  this  date,  to  then  go 
as  his  gifts  to  his  cousins  of  Gonzaga.  He  has  ordered 
that  no  cost  be  spared  in  the  work,  but  that  the  painting 
thereof  be  of  the  best  that  can  be  produced,  and  the 
prize  he  will  give  is  fifty  scudi.  Now,  Maestro  Bene- 
detto, having  known  some  time,  it  seems,  of  this  order, 
has  had  made  in  readiness  several  large  oval  dishes  and 
beautiful  big-bellied  jars  :  he  gives  one  of  each  to  each 
of  his  pupils, — to  myself,  to  Berengario,  to  Tito,  and 
Zenone.  The  master  is  sorely  distraught  that  his  eye- 
sight permits  him  not  himself  to  execute  the  duke's 
commands ;  but  it  is  no  secret  that  should  one  of  us  be 
so  fortunate  as  to  win  the  duke's  approbation,  the 
painter  who  does  so  shall  become  his  partner  here  and 
shall  have  the  hand  of  Pacifica.  Some  say  that  he  has 
only  put  forth  this  promise  as  a  stimulus  to  get  the  best 
work  done  of  which  his  bottega  is  capable ;  but  I  know 
Maestro  Benedetto  too  well  to  deem  him  guilty  of  any 
Buch  evasion.  What  he  has  said  he  will  carry  out ;  if 
the  vase  and  the  dish  win  the  duke's  praise,  they  will 
also  win  Pacifica.     Now  you  see,  'Faello  mine,  why  I 


THE   CHILD   OF    URBIAO.  143 

am  so  bitterly  sad  of  heart,  for  I  am  a  good  craftsman 
enough  at  the  wheel  and  the  furnace,  and  I  like  not  ill 
the  handling  and  the  moulding  of  the  clay,  but  at  the 
painting  of  the  clay  I  am  but  a  tyro,  and  Berengario  or 
even  the  little  Zenone  will  beat  me ;  of  that  I  am  sure." 

Raffaelle  heard  all  this  in  silence,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  his  friend's  knee,  and  his  chin  on  the  palms  of  his 
own  hands.  He  knew  that  the  other  pupils  were  bet- 
ter painters  by  far  than  his  Luca,  though  not  one  of 
them  was  such  a  good-hearted  or  noble-looking  youth, 
and  for  none  of  them  did  the  maiden  Pacifica  care. 

"  How  long  a  time  is  given  for  the  jar  and  the  dish 
to  be  ready?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

"  Three  months,  my  dear,"  said  Luca,  with  a  sigh 
sadder  than  ever.  "  But  if  it  were  three  years,  what 
difference  would  it  make  ?  You  cannot  cudgel  the  di- 
vine grace  of  art  into  a  man  with  blows  as  you  cudgel 
speed  into  a  mule,  and  I  shall  be  a  dolt  at  the  end  of 
the  time  as  I  am  now.  What  said  your  good  father  to 
me  but  yesternight  ? — and  he  is  good  to  me  and  does 
not  despise  me.  He  said,  '  Luca,  my  son,  it  is  of  no 
more  avail  for  you  to  sigh  for  Pacifica  than  for  the 
moon.  Were  she  mine  I  would  give  her  to  you,  for 
you  have  a  heart  of  gold,  but  Signor  Benedetto  will 
not ;  for  never,  I  fear  me,  will  you  be  able  to  decorate 
anything  more  than  an  apothecary's  mortar  or  a  barber's 
basin.  If  I  hurt  you,  take  it  not  ill ;  I  mean  kind- 
ness, and  were  I  a  stalwart  youth  like  you  I  would  go 
try  my  fortunes  in  the  Free  Companies  in  France  or 
Spain,  or  down  in  Rome,  for  you  are  made  for  a  sol- 
dier.' That  was  the  best  even  your  father  could  say 
for  me,  'Faello." 


144  THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO. 

"  But  Pacifica,"  said  the  child, — "  Pacifica  would  not 
wish  you  to  join  the  Free  Companies?" 

"  God  knows/'  said  Luca,  hopelessly.  "  Perhaps  she 
would  not  care." 

"I  am  sure  she  would,"  said  Raffaelle,  "for  she  does 
love  you,  Luca,  though  she  cannot  say  so,  being  but  a 
girl,  and  Signor  Benedetto  against  you^  But  that  red- 
cap you  tamed  for  her,  how  she  loves  it,  how  she  ca- 
resses it,  and  half  is  for  you,  Luca,  half  for  the  bird !" 

Luca  kissed  him. 

But  the  tears  rolled  down  the  poor  youth's  face,  for 
he  was  much  in  earnest  and  filled  with  despair. 

"Even  if  she  did,  if  she  do,"  he  murmured,  hope- 
lessly, "she  never  will  let  me  know  it,  since  her  fiither 
forbids  a  thought  of  me ;  and  now  here  is  this  trial  of 
skill  at  the  duke's  order  come  to  make  things  worse, 
and  if  that  swaggering  Berengario  of  Fano  win  her, 
then  truly  will  I  join  the  free  lances  and  pray  heaven 
send  me  swift  shrive  and  shroud." 

Raffaelle  was  very  pensive  for  a  while;  then  he 
raised  his  head  and  said, — 

"  I  have  thought  of  something,  Luca.  But  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  will  let  me  try  it." 

"  You  angel  child !  What  would  your  old  Luca 
deny  to  you  ?  But  as  for  helping  me,  my  dear,  put 
that  thought  out  of  your  little  mind  forever,  for  no 
one  can  help  me,  'Faello,  not  the  saints  themselves, 
since  I  was  born  a  dolt !" 

Raffaelle  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  Now  listen  !" 

A  few  days  later  Signor  Benedetto  informed  his 
pupils  in  ceremonious  audience  of  the  duke's  command 
and  of  his  own  intentions;  he  did  not  pronounce  his 


THE   CHILD    OF    V  RBI  NO.  I45 

daughter's  name  to  the  youths,  but  he  spoke  in  terms 
that  were  clear  enough  to  assure  them  that  whoever 
had  the  good  fortune  and  high  merit  to  gain  the  duke's 
choice  of  his  pottery  shoukl  have  the  honor  of  be- 
coming associate  in  his  own  famous  bottega.  Now,  it 
had  been  known  in  Urbino  ever  since  Pacifica  liad 
gone  to  her  first  communion  that  whoever  pleased  her 
father  well  enough  to  become  his  partner  would  have 
also  to  please  her  as  her  husband.  Not  much  atten- 
tion was  given  to  maidens'  wishes  in  those  times,  and 
no  one  thought  the  master-potter  either  unjust  or  cruel 
in  thus  suiting  himself  before  he  suited  his  daughter. 
And  what  made  the  hearts  of  all  the  young  men  quake 
and  sink  the  lowest  was  the  fact  that  Signor  Benedetto 
offered  the  competition  not  only  to  his  own  appren- 
tices but  to  any  native  of  the  duchy  of  Urbino.  For 
who  could  tell  what  hero  might  not  step  forth  from 
obscurity  and  gain  the  great  prize  of  this  fair  hand  of 
Pacifica's?  And  with  her  hand  would  go  many  a 
broad  gold  ducat,  and  heritage  of  the  wide  old  gray 
stone  house,  and  many  an  old  jewel  and  old  brocade 
that  were  kept  there  in  dusky  sweet-smelling  cabinets, 
and  also  more  than  one  good  piece  of  land,  smiling 
with  corn  and  fruit-trees,  outside  the  gates  in  the  lower 
pastures  to  the  westward. 

Luca,  indeed,  never  thought  of  these  things,  but  the 
other  three  pupils  did,  and  other  youths  as  well.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  limitation  as  to  birth  within  the 
duchy,  many  a  gallant  young  painter  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Apennines,  many  a  lusty  vasalino  or  bocca- 
lino  from  the  workshops  of  fair  Florence  herself,  or 
from  the  Lombard  cities,  might  have  travelled  there 
a       k  13 


146  THE   CHILD    OF   V RBI  NO. 

in  hot  liaste  as  fast  as  horses  could  cany  thenij  and 
come  to  paint  the  clay  for  the  sake  of  so  precious  a 
recompense.  But  Urbino  men  they  had  to  be;  and 
poor  Luca,  who  was  so  full  of  despair  that  he  could 
almost  have  thrown  himself  headlong  from  the  rocks, 
was  thankful  to  destiny  for  even  so  much  slender 
mercy  as  this, — that  the  number  of  his  rivals  was 
limited. 

"  Had  I  been  you,"  Giovanni  Sanzia  ventured  once 
to  say  respectfully  to  Signor  Benedetto,  "I  think  I 
should  have  picked  out  for  my  son-in-law  the  best 
youth  that  I  knew,  not  the  best  painter ;  for  be  it  said 
in  all  reverence,  my  friend,  the  greatest  artist  is  not 
always  the  truest  man,  and  by  the  hearthstone  humble 
virtues  have  sometimes  high  claim." 

Then  Signor  Benedetto  had  set  his  stern  face  like  a 
flint,  knowing  very  well  what  youth  Messer  Giovanni 
would  have  liked  to  name  to  him. 

"  I  have  need  of  a  good  artist  in  my  bottega  to  keep 
up  its  fame,"  he  had  said,  stiffly.  "  My  vision  is  not 
what  it  was,  and  I  should  be  loath  to  see  Urbino  ware 
fall  back,  M'hilst  Pesaro  and  Gubbio  and  Castel-Durante 
gain  ground  every  day.  Pacifica  must  pay  the  penalty, 
if  penalty  there  be,  for  being  the  daughter  of  a  great 
artist." 

Mirthful,  keen-witted  Sanzio  smiled  to  himself,  and 
went  his  way  in  silence;  for  he  who  loved  Andrea 
Mantegna  did  not  bow  down  in  homage  before  the 
old  master-potter's  estimation  of  himself,  which  was  in 
truth  somewhat  overweening  in  its  vanity. 

"  Poor  Pacifica !"  he  thought :  "  if  only  my  'Faello 
were  but  some  decade  older !" 


TEE   CHILD   OF   URBINO.  I47 

He,  who  could  not  foresee  the  future,  the  splendid, 
wondrous,  unequalled  future  that  awaited  his  young 
son,  wished  nothing  better  for  him  than  a  peaceful 
painter's  life  here  in  old  Urbino,  under  the  friendly- 
shadow  of  the  Montefeltro's  palace-walls. 

Meanwhile,  where  think  you  was  Raifaelle?  Half 
the  day,  or  all  the  day,  and  every  day  whenever  he 
could?  Where  think  you  was  he?  Well,  in  the  attic 
of  Luca,  before  a  bowl  and  a  dish  almost  as  big  as 
himself.  The  attic  was  a  breezy,  naked  place,  under- 
neath the  arches  supporting  the  roof  of  Maestro  Bene- 
detto's dwelling.  Each  pupil  had  one  of  these  garrets 
to  himself, — a  rare  boon,  for  which  Luca  came  to  be 
very  thankful,  for  without  it  he  could  not  have  shel- 
tered his  angel ;  and  the  secret  that  E.affaelle  had  whis- 
pered to  him  that  day  of  the  first  conference  had  been, 
"  Let  me  try  and  paint  it !" 

For  a  long  time  Luca  had  been  afraid  to  comply, 
had  only  forborne  indeed  from  utter  laughter  at  the 
idea  from  his  love  and  reverence  for  the  little  speaker. 
Baby  Sanzio,  who  was  only  just  seven  years  old  as  the 
April  tulips  reddened  the  corn,  painting  a  majolica 
dish  and  vase  to  go  to  the  Gonzaga  of  Mantua !  The 
good  fellow  could  scarcely  restrain  his  shouts  of  mirth 
at  the  audacious  fancy;  and  nothing  had  kept  him 
grave  but  the  sight  of  that  most  serious  face  of  RafFa- 
elle,  looking  up  to  his  with  serene,  sublime  self-confi- 
dence, nay,  perhaps,  rather,  confidence  in  heaven  and 
in  heaven's  gifts. 

"  Let  me  try  !"  said  the  child  a  hundred  times.  He 
would  tell  no  one,  only  Luca  would  know ;  and  if  be 
failed — well,  there  would  only  be  the  spoiled  pottery 


148  THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO. 

to  pay  for,  and  had  he  not  two  whole  ducats  that  the 
duke  had  given  him  when  the  court  had  come  to  be- 
hold his  father's  designs  for  the  altar-frescoes  at  San 
Domiuico  di  Cagli  ? 

So  utterly  in  earnest  was  he,  and  so  intense  and  blank 
was  Luca's  absolute  despair,  that  the  young  man  had 
in  turn  given  way  to  his  entreaties.  "  Never  can  I  do 
aught,"  he  thought,  bitterly,  looking  at  his  own  clumsy 
designs.  "  And  sometimes  by  the  help  of  cherubs  the 
saints  work  miracles." 

"It  will  be  no  miracle,"  said  Eaffaelle,  hearing  him 
murmur  this :  "  it  will  be  myself,  and  that  which  the 
dear  God  has  put  into  me." 

From  that  hour  Luca  let  him  do  what  he  would,  and 
through  all  these  lovely  early  summer  days  the  child 
came  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  garret,  and  studied, 
and  thought,  and  worked,  and  knitted  his  pretty  fair 
brows,  and  smiled  in  tranquil  satisfaction,  according  to 
the  mood  he  was  in  and  the  progress  of  his  labors. 

Giovanni  Sanzio  went  away  at  that  time  to  paint  an 
altar-piece  over  at  Citta  di  Castello,  and  his  little  son 
for  once  Avas  glad  he  was  absent.  Messer  Giovanni 
would  surely  have  remarked  the  long  and  frequent 
visits  of  Raffaelle  to  the  attic,  and  would,  in  all  like- 
lihood, have  obliged  him  to  pore  over  his  Latin  or  to 
take  exercise  in  the  open  fields;  but  his  mother  said 
nothing,  content  that  he  should  be  amused  and  safe, 
and  knowing  well  that  Pacifica  loved  him  and  would 
let  him  come  to  no  harm  under  her  roof.  Pacifica  her- 
self did  wonder  that  he  deserted  her  so  perpetually  for 
the  garret.  But  one  day  when  she  questioned  him  the 
^weet-faoed  rogue  clung  to  her  and  murmured,  "  Oh 


THE   CHILD    OF    URBINO.  149 

Pacifica,  I  do  want  Luca  to  win  yon,  because  he  loves 
you  so ;  and  I  do  love  you  both  !"  And  she  grew 
pale,  and  answered  him,  "  Ah,  dear,  if  he  could  !"  and 
then  said  never  a  word  more,  but  went  to  her  distaff; 
and  Haffaelle  saw  great  tears  fall  off  her  lashes  down 
among  the  flax. 

She  thought  he  went  to  the  attic  to  watch  how  Luca 
painted,  and  loved  him  more  than  ever  for  that,  but 
knew  in  the  hopelessness  of  her  heart — as  Luca  also 
knew  it  in  his — that  the  good  and  gallant  youth  would 
never  be  able  to  create  anything  that  would  go  as  the 
duke's  gifts  to  the  Gonzaga  of  Mantua,  ^nd  she  did 
care  for  Luca !  She  had  spoken  to  him  but  rarely 
indeed,  yet  passing  in  and  out  of  the  same  doors,  and 
going  to  the  same  church  offices,  and  dwelling  always 
beneath  the  same  roof,  he  had  found  means  of  late  for 
a  word,  a  flower,  a  serenade.  And  he  was  so  hand- 
some and  so  brave,  and  so  gentle,  too,  and  so  full 
of  deference.  Poor  Pacifica  cared  not  in  the  least 
whether  he  could  paint  or  not.  He  could  have  made 
her  happy. 

In  the  attic  Raffaelle  passed  the  most  anxious  hours 
of  all  his  sunny  little  life.  He  would  not  allow  Luca 
even  to  look  at  what  he  did.  He  barred  the  door  and 
worked  ;  when  he  went  away  he  locked  his  work  up 
in  a  wardrobe.  The  swallows  came  in  and  out  of  the 
unglazed  window,  and  fluttered  all  around  him  ;  the 
morning  sunbeams  came  in  too,  and  made  a  nimbus 
round  his  golden  head,  like  that  which  his  father  gilded 
above  the  heads  of  saints.  Haffaelle  worked  on,  not 
looking  off,  though  clang  of  trumpet,  or  fanfare  of 
cymbal,  often  told  him  there  was  much  going  on  worth 
13* 


150  I'lIJ^   CHILD    OF    URBINO. 

looking  at  down  below.  He  was  only  seven  years  old, 
but  he  labored  as  earnestly  as  if  he  were  a  man  grown, 
his  little  rosy  fingers  gripping  that  pencil  which  was  to 
make  him  in  life  and  death  famous  as  kings  are  not 
famous,  and  let  his  tender  body  lie  in  its  last  sleep  in 
the  Pantheon  of  Kome. 

He  had  covered  hundreds  of  sheets  with  designs  be- 
fore he  had  succeeded  in  getting  embodied  the  ideas 
that  haunted  him.  When  he  had  pleased  himself  at 
last,  he  set  to  work  to  transfer  his  imaginations  to  the 
clay  in  color  in  the  subtile  luminous  metallic  enamel 
that  characterizes  Urbino  majolica. 

Ah,  how  glad  he  was  now  that  his  father  had  let 
him  draw  from  the  time  he  Avas  two  years  old,  and 
that  of  late  Messer  Benedetto  had  shown  him  some- 
thing of  the  mysteries  of  painting  on  biscuit  and  pro- 
ducing the  metallic  lustre  which  was  the  especial  glory 
of  the  pottery  of  the  duchy  ! 

How  glad  he  was,  and  how  his  little  heart  bounded 
and  seemed  to  sing  in  this  his  first  enjoyment  of  the 
joyous  liberties  and  powers  of  creative  work ! 

A  well-known  writer  has  said  that  genius  is  the 
power  of  taking  pains ;  he  should  have  said  rather 
that  genius  has  this  power  also,  but  that  first  and  fore- 
most it  possesses  the  power  of  spontaneous  and  exqui- 
site production  without  effort  and  with  delight. 

Luca  looked  at  him  (not  at  his  work,  for  the  child 
had  made  him  promise  not  to  do  so)  and  began  to 
marvel  at  his  absorption,  his  intentness,  the  evident 
facility  with  which  he  worked  :  the  little  figure,  lean- 
ing over  the  great  dish  on  the  bare  board  of  the  table, 
with  the  oval  opening  of  the  window  and  the  blue  sky 


THE   CHILD    OF    U RBI  NO.  \^\ 

beyond  it,  began  to  grow  sacred  to  him  with  more  than 
the  sanctity  of  childhood.  Raifaelle's  face  grew  very 
serious,  too,  and  lost  its  color,  and  his  large  hazel  eyes 
looked  very  big  and  grave  and  dark. 

"  Perhaps  Signor  Giovanni  will  be  angry  with  me  if 
ever  he  know,"  thought  poor  Luca;  but  it  was  too  late 
to  alter  anything  now.  The  child  Sanzio  had  become 
his  master. 

So  Rafifaelle,  unknown  to  any  one  else,  worked  on 
and  on  there  in  the  attic  while  the  tulips  bloomed  and 
withered,  and  the  honeysuckle  was  in  flower  in  the 
hedges,  and  the  wheat  and  barley  were  being  cut  in 
the  quiet  fields  lying  far  down  below  in  the  sunshine. 
For  midsummer  was  come ;  the  three  months  all  but  a 
week  had  passed  by.  It  was  known  that  every  one 
was  ready  to  comj)ete  for  the  duke's  choice. 

One  afternoon  Raifaelle  took  Luca  by  the  hand  and 
said  to  him,  "  Come." 

He  led  the  young  man  up  to  the  table,  beneath  the 
unglazed  window,  where  he  had  passed  so  many  of 
these  ninety  days  of  the  spring  and  summer. 

Luca  gave  a  great  cry,  and  stood  gazing,  gazing, 
gazing.  Then  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  embraced  the 
little  feet  of  the  child :  it  was  the  first  homage  that 
he,  whose  life  became  one  beautiful  song  of  praise,  re- 
ceived from  man. 

"  Dear  Luca,"  he  said,  softly,  "  do  not  do  that.  If 
it  be  indeed  good,  let  us  thank  God." 

What  his  friend  saw  were  the  great  oval  dish  and 
the  great  jar  or  vase  standing  with  the  sunbeams  full 
upon  them,  and  the  brushes  and  the  tools  and  the 
colors  all  strewn  around.    And  they  shone  with  lustrous 


152  THE   CHILD    OF   IJRBINO. 

opaline  hues  and  wondrous  flame-like  glories  and  gleam- 
ing iridescence,  like  melted  jewels,  and  there  were  all 
manner  of  graceful  symbols  and  classic  designs  wrought 
upon  them ;  and  their  borders  were  garlanded  with 
cherubs  and  flowers,  bearing  the  arms  of  Montefeltro, 
and  the  landscapes  were  the  tender,  homely  landscapes 
round  about  Urbino;  and  the  mountains  had  the 
solemn  radiance  that  the  Apennines  wore  at  evening- 
time,  and  amidst  the  figures  there  was  one  supreme, 
white-robed,  golden-crowned  Esther,  to  whom  the 
child  painter  had  given  the  face  of  Pacifica.  And  this 
wondrous  creation,  wrought  by  a  baby's  hand,  had 
safely  and  secretly  passed  the  ordeal  of  the  furnace, 
and  had  come  forth  without  spot  or  flaw. 

Luca  ceased  not  from  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Raf- 
faelle,  as  ever  since  has  kneeled  the  world. 

"  Oh,  wondrous  boy  !  Oh,  angel  sent  unto  men !" 
sighed  the  poor  'prentice,  as  he  gazed ;  and  his  heart 
was  so  full  that  he  burst  into  tears. 

"  Let  us  thank  God,"  said  little  Raffaelle,  again ; 
and  he  joined  his  small  hands  that  had  wrought  this 
miracle,  and  said  his  Laus  Domini. 

When  the  precious  jar  and  the  great  platter  were 
removed  to  the  wardrobe  and  shut  up  in  safety  behind 
the  steel  wards  of  the  locker,  Luca  said,  timidly,  feeling 
twenty  years  in  age  behind  the  wisdom  of  this  divine 
child,  "  But,  dearest  boy,  I  do  not  see  how  your  marvel- 
lous and  most  exquisite  accomplishment  can  advan- 
tage me.  Even  if  you  would  allow  it  to  pass  as  mine,  I 
could  not  accept  such  a  thing :  it  would  be  a  fraud,  a 
shame :  not  even  to  win  Pacifica  could  I  consent." 

"Be   not   so   hasty,   good   friend,"   said   Paffaelle. 


THE   CHILD   OF   URBINO.  153 

"  Wait  just  a  little  longer  yet  and  see.  I  have  my 
own  idea.     Do  trust  in  me." 

"  Heaven  speaks  in  you,  that  I  believe,"  said  Luca, 
humbly. 

RafFaelle  answered  not,  but  ran  down-stairs,  and 
passing  Pacifica,  threw  his  arms  about  her  in  more 
than  his  usual  affectionate  caresses. 

"  Pacifica,  be  of  good  heart,"  he  murmured,  and 
would  not  be  questioned,  but  ran  homeward  to  his 
mother. 

"Can  it  be  that  Luca  has  done  well,"  thought 
Pacifica ;  but  she  feared  the  child's  wishes  had  outrun 
his  wisdom.  He  could  not  be  any  judge,  a  child  of 
seven  years,  even  though  he  were  the  son  of  that  good 
and  honest  painter  and  poet,  Giovanni  Sanzio. 

The  next  morning  was  midsummer  day.  Now,  the 
pottery  was  all  to  be  placed  on  this  forenoon  in  the 
bottega  of  Signor  Benedetto ;  and  the  Duke  Guido- 
baldo  was  then  to  come  and  make  his  choice  from 
amidst  them ;  and  the  master-potter,  a  little  because  he 
was  a  courtier,  and  more  because  he  liked  to  affect  a 
mighty  indifference  and  to  show  he  had  no  favoritism, 
had  declared  that  he  would  not  himself  see  the  com- 
peting works  of  art  until  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  of 
Montefeltro  also  fell  upon  them. 

As  for  Pacifica,  she  had  locked  herself  in  her  chamber, 
alone  with  her  intense  agitation.  The  young  men  were 
swaggering  about,  and  taunting  each  other,  and  boast- 
ing. Luca  alone  sat  apart,  thrumming  an  old  lute. 
Giovanni  Sanzio,  who  had  ridden  home  at  evening 
from  Citta  di  Castello,  came  in  from  his  own  house 
and  put  his  hand  on  the  youth's  shoulder. 


154  '       ^^^   CHILD    OF   V RBI  NO. 

*'  I  hear  the  Pesaro  men  have  brought  fine  things. 
Take  courage,  my  lad.  Maybe  we  can  entreat  the 
duke  to  dissuade  Pacifica's  father  from  this  tyrannous 
disposal  of  her  hand." 

Luca  shook  his  head  wearily. 

There  would  be  one  beautiful  thing  there,  indeed, 
he  knew;  but  what  use  would  that  be  to  him? 

"  The   child — the   child "    he   stammered,   and 

then  remembered  that  he  must  not  disclose  Raffaelle's 
secret. 

"  My  child  ?"  said  Signor  Giovanni.  "  Oh,  he  will 
be  here ;  he  will  be  sure  to  be  here :  wherever  there  is 
a  painted  thing  to  be  seen,  there  always,  be  sure,  is 
Haffaelle." 

Then  the  good  man  sauntered  within  from  the  loggia, 
to  exchange  salutations  with  Ser  Benedetto,  who,  in  a 
suit  of  fine  crimson  with  doublet  of  sad-colored  velvet, 
was  standing  ready  to  advance  bare-headed  into  the 
street  as  soon  as  the  hoofs  of  the  duke's  charger  should 
strike  on  the  stones. 

"You  must  be  anxious  in  your  thoughts,"  said 
Signor  Giovanni  to  him.  "They  say  a  youth  from 
Pesaro  brings  something  fine :  if  you  should  find  your- 
self bound  to  take  a  stranger  into  your  work-room  and 
your  home " 

"  If  he  be  a  man  of  genius  he  will  be  welcome," 
answered  Messer  Ronconi,  pompously.  "Be  he  of 
Pesaro,  or  of  Fano,  or  of  Castel-Durante,  I  go  not 
back  from  my  word :  I  keep  my  word,  to  my  own 
hindrance  even,  ever." 

"  Let  us  hope  it  will  bring  you  only  joy  and  triumph 
here,"  said  his  neighbor,  who  knew  him  to  be  an  honest 


THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO.  J  55 

man  and  a  true,  if  over-obstinate  and  too  vain  of  his 
own  place  in  Urbino. 

"  Our  lord  the  duke !"  shouted  the  people  standing 
in  the  street;  and  Ser  Benedetto  walked  out  with 
stately  tread  to  receive  the  honor  of  his  master's  visit 
to  his  bottega. 

Raffaelle  slipped  noiselessly  up  to  his  father's  side, 
and  slid  his  little  hand  into  Sanzio's. 

• "  You  are  not  surely  afraid  of  our  good  Guido- 
baldo !"  said  his  father,  with  a  laugh  and  some  little 
surprise,  for  Raffaelle  was  very  pale,  and  his  lower  lip 
trembled  a  little. 

"  No,"  said  the  child,  simply. 

The  young  duke  and  his  court  came  riding  down  the 
street,  and  paused  before  the  old  stone  house  of  the 
master-potter, — splendid  gentlemen,  though  only  in 
their  morning  apparel,  with  noble  Barbary  steeds  fret- 
ting under  them,  and  little  pages  and  liveried  varlets 
about  their  steps.  Usually,  unless  he  went  hunting  or 
on  a  visit  to  some  noble,  Guidobaldo,  like  his  father, 
walked  about  Urbino  like  any  one  of  his  citizens ;  but 
he  knew  the  pompous  and  somewhat  vainglorious 
temper  of  Messer  Benedetto,  and  good-naturedly  was 
willing  to  humor  its  harmless  vanities.  Bowing  to  the 
ground,  the  master-potter  led  the  way,  walking  back- 
ward into  his  bottega;  the  courtiers  followed  their 
prince;  Giovanni  Sanzio  with  his  little  son  and  a  few 
other  privileged  persons  went  in  also  at  due  distance. 
At  the  farther  end  of  the  workshop  stood  the  pupils  and 
the  artists  from  Pesaro  and  other  places  in  the  duchy 
whose  works  were  there  in  competition.  In  all  there 
"were  some  ten  competitors :  poor  Luca,  who  had  set 


156  THE   CHILD   OF   U RBI  NO. 

his  owu  work  on  the  table  with  the  rest  as  he  waa 
obliged  to  do,  stood  hindmost  of  all,  shrinking  back, 
to  hide  his  misery,  into  the  deepest  shadow  of  the 
deep-bayed  latticed  window. 

On  the  narrow  deal  benches  that  served  as  tables 
on  working-days  to  the  pottery-painters  were  ranged 
the  dishes  and  the  jars,  with  a  number  attached  to 
each, — no  name  to  any,  because  Signor  Benedetto  was 
resolute  to  prove  his  own  absolute  disinterestedness  in 
the  matter  of  choice :  he  wished  for  the  best  artist. 
Prince  Guidobaldo,  doffing  his  plumed  cap  courteously, 
walked  down  the  long  room  and  examined  each  pro- 
duction in  its  turn.  On  the  whole,  the  collection  made 
a  brave  display  of  majolica,  though  he  was  perhaps  a 
little  disappointed  at  the  result  in  each  individual  case, 
for  he  had  wanted  something  out  of  the  common  run 
and  absolutely  perfect.  Still,  with  fair  words  he  com- 
plimented Signor  Benedetto  on  the  brave  show,  and 
only  before  the  work  of  poor  Luca  was  he  entirely 
silent,  since  indeed  silence  was  the  greatest  kindness 
he  could  show  to  it :  the  drawing  was  bold  and  regu- 
lar, but  the  coloring  was  hopelessly  crude,  glaring,  and 
ill-disposed. 

At  last,  before  a  vase  and  a  dish  that  stood  modestly 
at  the  very  farthest  end  of  the  deal  bench,  the  duke 
gave  a  sudden  exclamation  of  delight,  and  Signor 
Benedetto  grew  crimson  with  pleasure  and  surprise, 
and  Giovanni  Sanzio  pressed  a  little  nearer  and  tried 
to  see  over  the  shoulders  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
court,  feeling  sure  that  something  rare  and  beautiful 
must  have  called  forth  that  cry  of  wonder  from  the 
Lord  of  Montefeltro,  and   having  seen   at  a  glance 


THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO.  157 

that  for  his  poor  friend  Luca  there  was  no  sort  of 
hope. 

"  This  is  beyond  all  comparison/'  said  Guidobaldo, 
taking  the  great  oval  dish  up  reverently  in  his  hands. 
"  Maestro  Benedetto,  I  do  felicitate  you  indeed  that  you 
should  possess  such  a  pupil.  He  will  be  a  glory  to  our 
beloved  Urbino." 

"  It  is  indeed  most  excellent  work,  my  lord  duke/' 
said  the  master-potter,  who  was  trembling  with  surprise 
and  dared  not  show  all  the  astonishment  and  emotion 
that  he  felt  at  the  discovery  of  so  exquisite  a  creation 
in  his  bottega.  "  It  must  be,"  he  added,  for  he  was 
a  very  honest  man,  "  the  work  of  one  of  the  lads  of 
Pesaro  or  Castel-Duraute.  I  have  no  such  craftsman 
in  my  workshop.     It  is  beautiful  exceedingly !" 

"  It  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold !"  said  the  prince, 
sharing  his  emotion.  "  Look,  gentlemen — look  !  Will 
not  the  fame  of  Urbino  be  borne  beyond  the  Apennines 
and  Alps?" 

Thus  summoned,  the  court  and  the  citizens  came  to 
look,  and  averred  that  truly  never  in  Urbino  had  they 
seen  such  painting  on  majolica. 

"  But  whose  is  it  ?"  said  Guidobaldo,  impatiently, 
casting  his  eyes  over  the  gathered  group  in  the  back- 
ground of  apprentices  and  artists.  "  Maestro  Bene- 
detto, I  pray  you,  the  name  of  the  artist ;  I  pray  you, 
quick !" 

"  It  is  marked  number  eleven,  my  lord,"  answered 
the  master-potter.  "  Ho,  you  who  reply  to  that  num- 
ber, stand  out  and  give  your  name.  My  lord  duke  has 
chosen  your  work.     Ho,  there  !  do  you  hear  me  ?" 

But  not  one  of  the  group  moved.     The  young  men 
U 


158  THE   CHILD    OF   URBINO. 

looked  from  one  to  another.  Who  was  this  nameless 
rival  ?     There  were  but  ten  of  themselves. 

"  Ho,  there !"  repeated  Signor  Benedetto,  getting 
angry.  "  Cannot  you  find  a  tongue,  I  say  ?  Who  has 
wrought  this  work?  Silence  is  but  insolence  to  his 
highness  and  to  me !" 

Then  the  child  Sanzio  loosened  his  little  hand  from 
his  father's  hold,  and  went  forward,  and  stood  before 
the  master-potter. 

"  I  painted  it,"  he  said,  with  a  pleased  smile :  "  I^ 
Raffaelle." 

Can  you  not  fancy,  without  telling,  the  confusion, 
the  wonder,  the  rapture,  the  incredulity,  the  questions, 
the  wild  ecstasy  of  praise,  that  followed  on  the  discov- 
ery of  the  child  artist  ?  Only  the  presence  of  Guido- 
baldo  kept  it  in  anything  like  decent  quietude,  and 
even  he,  all  duke  though  he  was,  felt  his  eyes  wet  and 
felt  his  heart  swell ;  for  he  himself  was  childless,  and 
for  the  joy  that  Giovanni  Sanzio  felt  that  day  he  would 
have  given  his  patrimony  and  duchy. 

He  took  a  jewel  hung  on  a  gold  chain  from  his  own 
breast  and  threw  it  over  Raffaelle's  shoulders. 

"  There  is  your  first  guerdon,"  he  said  :  "you  will 
have  many,  O  wondrous  child,  who  shall  live  when  we 
are  dust!" 

Raffaelle,  who  himself  was  all  the  while  quite  tran- 
quil and  unmoved,  kissed  the  duke's  hand  with  sweetest 
grace,  then  turned  to  his  own  father. 

"  It  is  true  I  have  won  my  lord  duke's  prize  ?" 

"  Quite  true,  my  angel !"  said  Giovanni  Sanzio,  with 
tremulous  voice. 

Raffaelle  looked  up  at  Maestro  Benedetto. 


THE   CHILD   OF   U RBI  NO.  I59 

"  Then  I  claim  the  hand  of  Pacifica !" 

There  was  a  smile  on  all  the  faces  round,  even  ou 
the  darker  countenances  of  the  vanquished  painters. 

"  Oh,  would  indeed  you  were  of  age  to  be  my  son  by 
marriage,  as  you  are  the  son  of  my  heart !"  murmured 
Signor  Benedetto.  "  Dear  and  marvellous  child,  you 
are  but  jesting,  I  know.  Tell  me  what  it  is  indeed 
that  you  would  have.  I  could  deny  you  nothing ;  and 
truly  it  is  you  who  are  my  master." 

"  I  am  your  pupil,"  said  Raffaelle,  with  that  pretty 
serious  smile  of  his,  his  little  fingers  playing  with  the 
ducal  jewel.  "  I  could  never  have  painted  that  majol- 
ica yonder  had  you  not  taught  me  the  secrets  and  man- 
agement of  your  colors.  Now,  dear  maestro  mine,  and 
you,  O  my  lord  duke,  do  hear  me !  I  by  the  terms  of 
the  contest  have  won  the  hand  of  Pacifica  and  the  right 
of  association  with  Messer  Ronconi.  I  take  these  rights 
and  I  give  them  over  to  my  dear  friend  Luca  of  Fano, 
because  he  is  the  honestest  man  in  all  the  world,  and 
does  honor  Signor  Benedetto  and  love  Pacifica  as  no 
other  can  do  so  well,  and  Pacifica  loves  him ;  and  my 
lord  duke  will  say  that  thus  all  will  be  well." 

So  with  the  grave  innocent  audacity  of  a  child  he 
spoke, — this  seven-year-old  painter  who  was  greater 
than  any  there. 

Signor  Benedetto  stood  mute,  sombre,  agitated.  Luca 
had  sprung  forward  and  dropped  on  one  knee:  he  was 
as  pale  as  ashes.     Rafiaelle  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"My  lord  duke,"  he  said,  with  his  little  gentle 
smile,  "  you  have  chosen  my  work ;  defend  me  in  my 
rights." 

*'  Listen  to  the  voice  of  an  angel,  my  good   Ben- 


160  THE   CHILD    OF   VRBINO. 

edetto;  lieaven  speaks  by  him,"  said  Guidobaldo, 
gravely,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  master- 
potter. 

Harsh  Signor  Benedetto  burst  into  tears. 

"I  can  refuse  him  nothing,"  he  said,  with  a  sob. 
''  He  will  give  such  glory  unto  Urbino  as  never  the 
world  hath  seen !" 

"And  call  down  this  fair  Pacifica  whom  Eaffuelle 
has  won,"  said  the  sovereign  of  the  duchy,  "and  I 
will  give  her  myself  as  her  dower  as  many  gold  pieces 
as  we  can  cram  into  this  famous  vase.  An  honest 
youth  who  loves  her  j^nd  whom  she  loves, — what 
better  can  you  do,  Benedetto?  Young  man,  rise  up 
and  be  happy.  An  angel  has  descended  on  earth  this 
day  for  you." 

But  Luca  heard  not:  he  was  still  kneeling  at  the 
feet  of   Eaffaelle,  where  the  world   has    knelt   ever 


"  LET    US    REST     A    LITTLE." 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 


It  was  in  one  of  the  green  lanes  of  South  Devonshire 
that  Gemma,  being  quite  tired  out,  threw  herself  down 
on  the  daisied  grass  and  said  to  her  grandfather, — 

"  Nonno,  let  us  rest  a  little  and  eat."  Her  grand- 
father said  to  her, — 

"  Carina  mia,  I  would  eat  gladly,  but  we  have 
nothing  to  eat.     Tiie  satchel  is  empty." 

Gemma,  lying  chest  downward  on  the  turf,  sighed, 
and  buried  her  hands  in  her  abundant  curls  and  cooled 
her  forehead  on  the  damp  grass.  She  was  just  thirteen 
years  old,  and  she  was  so  pretty  that  she  made  the  heart 
of  the  old  grandfather  ache  often  when  he  looked  at 
her  and  thought  that  she  would  most  likely  soon  be 
left  alone  in  the  world,  for  her  little  brother  Bindo 
could  not  be  said  to  count  for  anything,  being  only  ten 
years  old.  Gemma  was  very  lovely  indeed,  being  tall 
and  lithe  and  gay,  and  full  of  grace,  and  having  a  beau- 
tiful changeable  face,  all  light  and  color.  But  she  was 
only  thirteen,  and  all  she  could  do  to  get  her  livelihood 
was  to  dance  the  saltarello  and  the  tarantella.  She  and 
her  brother  danced,  which  they  did  very  prettily,  and 
the  old  man  whom  they  called  Nonno  told  fortunes 
and  performed  some  simple  conjuring  tricks,  and  these 
were  all  bad  trades  as  times  went,  for  nowadays  nobody 
I  U*  161 


J  62  IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

amuses  himself  with  simple  things,  and  the  rural  folk 
have  grown  as  sharp  and  as  serious  as  the  city  people, 
which  to  my  thinking  is  a  very  great  loss  to  the  world, 
for  merry  people  are  generally  kind  people,  and  con- 
tented people  are  easily  governed,  and  have  no  appe- 
tites for  politics  and  philosophies  and  the  like  indiges- 
tible things. 

Nonno  and  Gemma  and  Bincio  were  merry  enough 
even  on  empty  stomachs.  The  old  man  was  as  simple 
as  a  duck,  and  as  gentle  as  a  rabbit,  and  was  rather 
more  of  a  child  than  either  of  the  children.  BIndo 
was  a  little,  round,  playful,  gleeful  thing,  like  a  little 
field-mouse,  and  Gemma  was  as  gay  as  a  lark,  though 
she  had  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  only  brains  that  there 
were  in  the  family. 

They  were  little  Neapolitans ;  they  had  been  born  in 
a  little  cabin  on  the  sunny  shore  facing  Ischia,  and  in 
their  infancy  had  tumbled  about  naked  and  glad  as 
young  dolphins  in  the  bright  blue  waters.  Then  their 
parents  had  died, — their  father  at  sea,  their  mother  of 
fever, — and  left  them  to  the  care  of  Nonno ;  Nonno, 
who  was  very  old,  so  old  that  they  thought  he  must 
have  been  made  almost  before  the  world  itself,  and  who, 
after  having  been  a  showman  of  puppets  to  divert  the 
poorest  classes  all  his  life,  was  so  very  poor  himself  then 
that  he  could  hardly  scrape  enough  together  to  get  a 
little  drink  of  thin  wine  and  an  inch  or  two  of  polenta. 
Being  so  very  poor,  he  was  seduced  into  accepting  an  en- 
gagement for  himself  and  the  children  with  a  wicked  man 
whose  business  it  was  in  life  to  decoy  poor  little  Italians 
and  make  money  out  of  them  in  foreign  lands.  Nonno 
was  so  good  and  simple  himself  that  he  thought  every- 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  163 

body  was  as  harmless  as  he  was,  and  his  grief  and 
amazement  were  very  great  when  on  reaching  the 
English  shores  with  this  wicked  man  he  found  that 
the  wicked  man  meant  to  give  him  the  slip  altogether 
and  go  off  with  the  t\vo  children.  By  a  mere  hazard, 
Nonno,  whose  name  was  Epifania  Santo  (a  droll  name, 
but  he  himself  had  been  a  foundling),  was  able  to 
defeat  the  wicked  man  so  far  that  he  got  out  of  his 
clutches  and  took  his  grandchildren  with  him.  But 
there  they  all  three  were  in  England,  with  no  money 
at  all,  and  nothing  on  earth  but  a  few  puppets,  and  a 
conjurer's  box  of  playthings,  and  the  stilts  on  which 
the  wicked  man  had  had  the  children  taught  to  walk. 
And  in  England  they  had  now  been  four  years,  re- 
maining there  chiefly  because  they  had  no  notion  how 
to  get  home  again,  and  partly  because  Nonno  had  such 
a  great  terror  of  the  sea.  He  had  suffered  so  much  on 
the  long  voyage  into  which  he  had  been  entrapped  from 
Naples,  round  by  the  Bay  of  Biscay  up  the  Bristol 
Channel,  that  he  would  sooner  have  died  there  and 
then  than  have  set  foot  again  on  board  a  sea-going 
vessel.  So  in  England  they  had  stayed,  wandering 
about  and  picking  up  a  few  pence  in  villages  and  towns, 
and  clinging  together  tenderly,  and  being  very  often 
hungry,  cold,  tired,  roofless,  but  yet  being  all  the  while 
happy. 

Sometimes,  too,  they  fared  well :  the  children's  bril- 
liant uncommon  beauty  and  pretty  foreign  accent  often 
touched  country-people's  hearts,  and  sometimes  they 
would  get  bed  and  board  at  homely  farm-houses  high 
on  lonely  hills,  or  be  made  welcome  without  payment 
in  little  wayside  inns.     They  had  kept  to  the  south- 


l64  J^   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

west  part  of  the  kingdom,  never  being  able  to  afford 
other  means  of  locomotion  than  their  own  feet,  and  the 
farthest  distance  they  had  ever  compassed  had  been 
this  far-south  country-side,  where  the  green  woods  and 
pastures  roll  down  to  the  broad  estuaries  of  Exe  and 
Dart.  This  green,  wet,  shadowy  country  always  seemed 
strange  to  the  children  ;  for  a  long  while  they  thought 
it  was  always  evening  in  England.  They  could  re- 
member the  long  sunshiny  years  at  home,  and  the  ra- 
diant air,  and  the  blue,  clear  sky,  and  the  sea  that 
seemed  always  laughing.  They  could  never  forget  it 
indeed,  and  when  they  were  together  they  never  talked 
of  anything  else:  only  the  cactus-fruit  and  the  green 
and  black  figs,  the  red  tomatoes  and  the  rough  pome- 
granates, and  the  big  balls  of  gold  to  be  had  in  the 
orange  woods  just  for  the  plucking;  the  boats  with  the 
pretty  striped  sails,  and  the  villas  with  the  marbles  and 
the  palms,  and  the  islands  all  aglow  in  the  sunset,  and 
the  distance  you  could  see  looking  away,  away,  away 
into  the  immeasurable  azure  of  the  air.  Oh,  yes,  they 
remembered  it  all,  and  at  night  they  would  weep  for  it, 
the  old  man's  slow  salt  tears  mingling  with  the  pas- 
sionate rain  of  the  childish  eyes.  Here  it  was  green 
and  pretty  in  its  own  way,  but  all  so  dark,  so  wet,  so 
misty ! 

"  When  I  try  to  see,  there  is  a  white  wall  of  shadow, 
— I  think  it  is  shadow ;  perhaps  it  is  fog,  but  it  is 
always  there,"  said  Gemma.  "  At  hume  one  looks,  and 
looks,  and  looks  ;  there  is  no  end  to  it." 

Gemma  longed  sorely  to  go  home;  she  had  not 
minded  the  sea  at  all.  Bindo,  like  Nonno,  had  been 
very  ill  on  the  voyage,  and  cried  even  now  whenever 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  165 

he  saw  a  ship,  for  fear  he  should  be  going  in  it.  Bindo 
was  sadly  babyish  for  ten  years  old ;  to  make  amends, 
his  sister  was  almost  a  woman  at  thirteen. 

They  ought  now  to  have  been  all  three  serious  and 
alarmed,  for  Nonno's  satchel  had  not  a  penny  in  it, 
nor  a  crust,  and  they  were  all  hungry,  for  it  was  noon- 
day. But  instead  of  being  miserable  they  joked,  and 
laughed,  and  kissed  each  other,  as  thousands  of  their 
country-folks  at  home  with  equally  empty  stomachs 
were  doing,  lying  on  sunny  moles,  or  marble-strewn 
benches,  or  thymy  turf  under  ilex  shadows.  But  then 
in  our  dear  Italy  there  is  always  the  sun,  the  light,  the 
air  that  kisses  and  feeds  and  sends  to  soft  sleep  her 
children,  and  Gemma  and  her  brother  and  grandfather 
were  in  a  wet  English  lane,  with  the  clouds  hurrying 
up  over  the  distant  hills  by  Dartmoor,  and  the  rain- 
drops still  hanging  to  the  great  elm-boughs  overhead. 

Yet  they  were  merry,  and  sang  snatches  of  Neapoli- 
tan songs,  and  took  no  thought  for  the  morrow.  They 
were  not  far  off  Dartmouth,  and  they  meant  to  go  into 
the  quaint  old  town  by  market-day,  and  the  Dart  fisher- 
and  boating-folk  were  always  kind  to  them.  If  they 
were  hungry  now  they  would  eat  to-morrow. 

Suddenly,  however,  Nonno  grew  thoughtful  as  he 
looked  at  Gemma,  lying  face  downward  on  the  wet 
grass,  her  sandalled  feet  in  air,  a  dragon-fly  fluttering 
above  her  head. 

"  What  would  you  do  if  I  were  to  die,  my  pieci- 
cotta  f"  said  the  poor  old  man,  all  at  once  remembering 
he  was  nigh  eighty  years  old.  Gemma  raised  herself, 
and  said  nothing.  Her  eyes,  which  were  very  beauti- 
ful eyes,  grew  sad  and  moist. 


166  J^  '^^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

"  I  would  take  care  of  Bindo,  Nonno,"  she  answered, 
at  last.     "  Do  not  be  afraid  of  that." 

"  But  how  ?     It  is  easy  to  say.     But  how  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  could  dance  at  theatres,"  said  Gemma, 
after  reflection.     Nonno  shook  his  head. 

"  For  the  theatres  you  would  need  to  dance  differ- 
ently: it  is  all  spinning,  craning,  drilling  there;  you 
dance,  my  child,  as  a  flower  in  the  wind.  The  theatres 
do  not  care  for  that." 

"  Then  I  do  not  know,"  said  Gemma.  "  But  some- 
thing I  would  do.     Bindo  should  not  suffer." 

"  You  are  a  good  child,"  said  the  old  man,  tender'y. 
She  sank  down  again  on  the  grass. 

"  Do  not  think  of  dying,  Nonno,"  she  said.  '•'  It  in 
all  so  dark  where  death  is." 

"  Not  when  one  gets  to  the  saints,"  said  the  simple 
old  man.  He  always  fancied  Paradise  just  like  Amalfi, 
— his  own  Amalfi,  where  long  ago,  so  long  ago,  he  had 
run  and  leaped,  a  merry  naked  boy,  in  the  azure  waves, 
and  caught  the  glittering  sea-mouse  and  the  pink  column 
of  the  gemmia  in  his  hands.  Paradise  would  be  just 
like  Amalfi;  the  promise  of  it  consoled  him  as  he 
trotted  on  tired  limbs  along  the  wet  gravel  of  English 
market-roads,  or  meekly  bore  the  noisy  horse-play  of 
English  village  crowds. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  sun  was  shining  a  little 
in  a  drowsy  half-hearted  way,  as  if  it  were  but  half 
awake  even  at  mid-day.  There  were  big  hedges  on 
either  side  of  the  lane,  and  broad  strips  of  turf.  These 
lanes  are  almost  all  that  is  left  of  the  rural  and  leafy 
old  England  of  Seventeen  Hundred ;  and  they  are 
beautiful  in  their  own  way  when  midsummer  crowds 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  IQ'J 

them  with  flowers,  and  in  spring  when  their  palra-wil- 
lows  blossom,  and  in  antumn  when  their  hazel -coppices 
are  brown  with  nuts,  and  in  winter  when  their  holly 
and  ivy  clamber  high,  and  their  fine  trees  make  a 
tracery  of  bare  boughs  delicate  as  the  net-work  of  lace 
against  the  gray  skies. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  to  their  right,  there 
was  a  large  corn-field  ;  it  was  now  the  time  when  wheat 
is  ripe  in  England,  and  the  men  and  women  who  were 
reaping  it  were  sitting,  resting,  drinking  their  cider  and 
eating  their  noonday  bread  and  bacon.  Bindo  watched 
them  through  a  hole  in  the  hedge,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  It  makes  me  hungrier  to  see  them  eat !"  he  said, 
with  a  sob.     Gemma  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Do  not  cry  so,  my  Bindo,"  she  said,  with  a  tender 
voice :  "  I  will  ask  them  to  give  you  some." 

She  thrust  her  lithe  body  through  the  gap,  and 
walked  boldly  across  the  field, — a  strange  figure  for  an 
English  corn-field,  with  her  short  white  skirt,  and  her 
red  bodice,  and  her  striped  sash  of  many  colors,  and  her 
little  coral  ear-rings  in  her  ears ;  she  was  bareheaded, 
and  her  dusky  gold  hair,  the  hair  that  the  old  painters 
loved,  was  coiled  rope-like  all  around  her  small  head. 

"  My  little  brother  is  hungry :  will  you  be  so  very 
gentle  and  give  us  a  little  bread  ?"  she  said,  in  her 
pretty  accent,  which  robbed  the  English  tongue  of  all 
its  gutturals  and  clothed  it  in  a  sweetness  not  its  own. 
She  was  not  fond  of  begging,  being  proud,  and  she 
colored  very  much  as  she  said  it. 

The  reapers  stared,  then  grinned,  gaped  once  or  twice, 
and  then  stretched  big  brown  hands  out  to  her  with 
goodly  portions  of  food,  and  one  added  a  mug  of  cider. 


168  I^   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

"  I  do  thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  \^ith  a  smile 
that  was  like  a  sunbeam.  ^'  The  drink  I  take  not,  for 
Nonno  has  no  love  of  it;  but  for  the  bread  I  pray 
may  San  Martino  bless  you  !" 

Then  she  courtesied  to  them,  as  nature  and  nobody 
else  had  taught  her  to  do,  and  ran  away,  fleet  as  a  lap- 
wing, with  her  treasure. 

"  'Tis  that  dancing-girl  of  the  Popish  country,"  said 
the  men  one  to  another,  and  added  that  if  the  master 
caught  her  in  his  lane  'twould  be  the  worse  for  her,  for 
he  couldna  abide  tramps  and  vagabon's.  But  Gemma, 
who  knew  nothing  of  that,  was  sharing  her  spoils  with 
glee,  and  breaking  the  small  bit  of  bread  she  allowed 
to  herself  with  teeth  as  white  as  a  dog's. 

"  The  way  to  Dartmouth  will  not  now  seem  so  long," 
she  said,  and  Bindo  nodded  his  head  with  a  mouth  quite 
full  of  good  brown  bread  and  fat  bacon. 

"  How  much  do  they  love  came  secca  here !"  said 
Nonno,  with  a  sigh,  thinking  of  the  long  coils  of  maca- 
roni, the  lovely  little  fried  fish,  the  oil,  the  garlic,  the 
black  beans,  that  he  never  saw  now,  alas,  alas  !  "  The 
land  is  fat,  but  the  people  they  know  not  how  to  live," 
he  added,  with  a  sigh.  "A  people  without  wine, — 
what  should  they  know  ?" 

"They  make  good  bread,"  said  Gemma,  with  her 
ivory  teeth  in  a  crust. 

Meantime,  the  person  who  owned  the  lane  was 
coming  out  into  the  fields  to  see  how  his  men  got  on 
with  their  work.  His  house  stood  near,  hidden  in 
trees  on  a  bend  of  the  Ex.e.  He  was  rich,  young, 
prosperous,  and  handsome ;  he  was  also  generous  and 
charitable;   but   he  was  a   magistrate,  and  he  hated 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  Igg 

strollers.  By  name  he  was  known  as  Philip  Carey; 
his  people  had  been  squires  here  for  many  generations ; 
he  called  himself  a  yeoman,  and  was  as  proud  as  if  he 
were  a  prince. 

As  fates  would  have  it,  he  rode  down  the  lane  now 
on  his  gray  horse,  and  when  he  saw  the  group  of  Nonno 
and  Gemma  and  Bindo,  with  their  bags  and  bales  and 
bundles,  scattered  about  on  the  turf  of  his  lane,  his 
gray  eyes  grew  ominously  dark. 

"Who  gave  you  leave  to  come  here?"  he  asked, 
sternly  enough,  as  he  reined  up  his  horse. 

Nonno  looked  up  smiling,  and  stood  up  and  bowed 
with  grace  and  ease.  The  English  tongue  he  had 
never  been  able  to  master :  he  glanced  at  Gemma  to 
bid  her  answer. 

"We  were  only  resting,  Excellenza,"  said  she,  boldly. 
"  It  is  a  public  road." 

"It  is  not  a  public  road,"  said  the  owner  of  it. 
"  And  if  it  were,  you  would  have  no  right  to  cumber 
it.     Are  you  strollers  ?" 

"Strollers?"  repeated  Gemma:  she  did  not  under- 
stand the  word. 

"  Tramps  ?     Are  you  tramps  ?" 

"  We  are  artists,"  said  Gemma. 

"  What  do  you  do  for  your  living  ?"  asked  her  judge. 

"  We  dance,"  she  answered,  "  and  Nonno  yonder  he 
does  conjuring  tricks,  and  sometimes  has  a  little  lotto, 
but  that  is  only  when  we  have  got  a  little  money :  we 
have  none  now." 

"  A  lottery !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carey,  whose  face  grew 
very  stern.  "You  are  mere  idle  vagabonds,  then, 
when  you  are  not  worse.  Do  you  live  by  your  wits?" 
H  15 


170  J^  ^^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

"  We  dance,"  said  Gemma,  again. 

"  Dance  !     Can  you  read  and  write  ?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"I  am  thirteen,  Bindo  is  ten,  Nonno  is — is — is,  oh, 
as  old  as  the  world." 

"  Is  he  your  grandfather  ?" 

"  That  is  what  you  say  in  English.    We  say  Nonno." 

"  Cannot  he  speak  English  ?" 

"  No :  he  has  lost  his  teeth,  and  it  is  so  hard,  is  your 
English." 

"  You  are  an  impudent  girl." 

Gemma  smiled  her  beautiful  shining  smile,  as  if  he 
had  paid  her  an  admirable  compliment. 

She  knew  the  rider  by  sight  very  well,  though  he 
did  not  know  her.  His  housekeeper  had  whipped 
Bindo  for  getting  into  her  poultry-house  and  putting 
two  eggs  in  his  pocket,  and  his  gardener  one  day  had 
turned  them  both  out  of  his  orchards  as  trespassers,  so 
that  he  and  his  residence  of  Carey's  Honor  were  al- 
ready scored  with  black  in  the  tablets  of  the  children's 
memories. 

That  he  was  a  handsome  young  man,  with  a  grave 
and  pensive  face  and  a  very  sweet  smile,  when  he  did 
smile,  which  was  rarely,  did  not  affect  Gemma's  dislike 
to  him :  she  was  too  young  to  be  impressed  by  good 
looks.  Philip  Carey  was  not  touched  by  the  beauty 
of  her  either :  he  scarcely  saw  that  she  was  pretty,  he 
was  so  angry  with  her  for  what  seemed  to  him  her 
saucy  answers. 

"  Why  are  you  not  dressed  like  a  Christian  ?"  he 
6aid,  somewhat  irrelevantly. 


IN  THE  APPLE-CO  UNTRF.  17| 

"  I  am  a  Christian,"  said  Gemma,  angry  in  her  turn, 
— "  a  better  Christian  than  you  are.  And  what  is  my 
dress  to  you  ?     You  do  not  buy  it." 

"  It  is  immodest." 

"  Oh !  oh !"  cried  Gemma,  with  a  flame-like  light- 
ning in  her  eyes ;  and  like  lightning  she  leaped  up  on 
to  tiie  saddle  and  gave  the  astonished  gentleman  a 
sounding  box  on  both  ears. 

He  was  so  utterly  astonished  that  he  had  no  time 
to  protect  himself,  and  his  horse,  which  was  utterly 
astonished  too,  began  to  plunge  and  rear  and  kick,  and 
fully  occupied  him,  whilst  a  guffaw  from  the  field  be- 
yond added  to  his  rage  by  telling  him  that  his  reapers 
had  witnessed  his  discomfiture. 

Gemma  had  leaped  to  the  ground  as  swiftly  as  she 
had  leaped  to  the  saddle,  and,  whilst  the  horse  was 
rearing  and  plunging,  had  caught  up  their  bag  and 
baggage,  had  pushed  and  pulled  her  brother  and  her 
grandfather  before  her,  and  had  flown  down  the  lane 
and  out  of  sight  before  Philip  Carey  had  reduced  his 
steed  to  any  semblance  of  reason.  His  ears  tingled  and 
his  pride  was  bitterly  incensed,  yet  he  could  not  help 
laughing  at  himself. 

"  The  little  tigress !"  he  thought,  as  he  endeavored 
to  soothe  his  fretting  and  wheeling  beast,  which  was 
young  and  only  half  broken. 

When  he  rode  in  at  last  by  an  open  gate  among  his 
reapers  the  men  were  all  too  afraid  of  him  not  to  wear 
very  grave  faces,  as  though  they  had  seen  nothing. 
Every  one  was  afraid  of  Philip  Carey  except  his  dogs, 
which  shows  that  he  had  a  good  heart  under  a  stern 
manner,  for  dogs  never  make  mistakes  as  men  do. 


172  ^^   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

He  remained  about  his  fields  all  the  day,  and  went 
home  to  a  solitary  dinner.  He  had  no  living  relative. 
He  was  rather  more  of  a  scholar  than  a  farmer,  and 
liked  his  loneliness.  His  old  house,  which  was  called 
Carey's  Honor  ever  since  the  days  of  the  Tudors,  was 
a  rambling  comfortable  building,  set  amidst  green  lawn, 
huge  hew-  and  oak-trees,  and  meadows  that  stretched 
downward  to  the  broad  Dart  water.  It  was  all  within 
and  without  as  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  the  Armada, 
and  the  ivy  that  covered  it  was  as  old  as  the  brass 
dogs  in  the  big  chimney-places.  Many  men  with  such 
a  possession  would  have  been  restless  to  reach  a  higher 
rank,  but  Philip  Carey  was  a  grave  young  man,  of  re- 
fined and  severe  taste  and  simple  habits.  He  loved  his 
home,  and  was  content  with  it,  and  wanted  nothing  of 
the  world. 

This  evening  he  did  not  feel  so  contented  as  usual : 
his  ears  seemed  still  to  tingle  from  those  blows  at  the 
hand  of  a  child.  He  liked  old  Greek  and  Latin  au- 
thors, and  when  the  day  was  done  liked  to  sit  and  read 
of  a  summer  evening  under  the  biggest  yew  upon  his 
lawn,  with  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  song  of  the 
nightingale,  and  the  cries  of  the  water-birds  the  only 
sounds  upon  the  quiet  air.  But  this  evening  his  fa- 
vorite philosophers  said  nothing  to  him  :  had  Plato  or 
any  one  of  them  ever  had  his  ears  boxed  by  a  little  fury 
of  a  strolling  dancer? 

The  little  fury,  meanwhile,  was  dancing  the  saltardlo 
with  her  brother  before  a  crazy  old  wooden  inn  in 
Dartmouth, — dancing  it  as  the  girls  do  under  the  cork- 
trees in  Sardinia,  and  under  the  spreading  oaks  of  the 
Marches,  and  so  pleasing  the  yokels  of  the  river  town 


JN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  173 

with  Ler  grace  and  fire  and  animation  that  the  pence 
rolled  in  by  scores  into  her  tambourine,  and  the  mis- 
tress of  the  poor  little  inn  said  to  her,  "  Nay,  my  pretty, 
as  you  have  gained  them  here  you  must  spend  them 
here,  and  it  is  market-day  to-morrow." 

Gemma  was  quite  happy  to  have  gained  so  much, 
and  she  got  a  modest  little  supper  for  Nonno,  and  as 
she  shook  down  all  her  dark  gold  hair  in  the  moon- 
light and  looked  on  the  water  rippling  away  past  the 
walls  of  the  old  castle  she  laughed  out,  though  she  was 
all  alone,  thinking  of  the  grave  gentleman  on  the  gray 
horse,  and  murmured  naughtily  to  herself,  "  I  hope  I 
did  hurt  him  !     Oh,  I  hope  I  hurt  him  !" 

Then  she  knew  she  ought  not  to  hope  that,  and 
kissed  the  Madonnina  that  hung  at  her  throat,  and  asked 
the  Holy  Mother's  pardon,  and  then  laid  herself  down 
on  the  little  hard  bed  and  went  as  sound  asleep  as  a 
flittermouse  in  winter-time. 

The  next  day  was  market-day  in  the  little  sleepy 
Old-World  town  upon  the  Dart,  where  the  ships  and 
the  boats  go  by  on  the  gray  sea  and  the  brown  river- 
water.  There  would  be  watermen  and  countrymen, 
both,  in  numbers,  farmers  and  fisherfolk,  millers  and 
cider-merchants,  peddlers  and  hucksters,  and  egg-wivea 
and  wagoners,  and  Nonno  was  early  awakened  by  the 
children,  who  were  eager  to  begin  getting  more  pence 
with  the  sunrise :  the  pence  when  they  were  made  had 
such  a  terrible  knack  of  flying  away  again.  Gemma 
believed  that  they  grew  wings  like  the  butterflies, 
though  she  never  could  see  them,  and  though  she  and 
Nonno  kept  such  close  watch  and  ward  over  them. 

They  made  themselves  as  spruce  as  they  could  for 
15* 


174  ^^    y^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

the  day.  Gemma  had  washed  her  white  bodice  and 
Biudo's  white  shirt,  and,  though  the  scarlet  and  the 
blue  and  the  yellow  had  got  stained  and  weather-worn, 
the  clothes  yet  were  picturesque,  and  with  their  curling 
hair,  and  their  beautiful  big  black  eyes,  and  their  cheeks 
as  warm  and  as  soft  as  peaches,  slie  and  Bindo  were  a 
pretty  sight  as  they  bent  and  swayed  and  circled  and 
moved,  now  so  slowly,  now  so  furiously,  in  the  changes 
of  the  saltarello,  whilst  their  grandfather  played  for 
them  on  a  little  wooden  flute,  and  Gemma  beat  her 
tambourine  high  above  her  auburn  head,  and,  as  the 
music  waxed  faster  and  the  dance  wilder,  sprang  and 
whirled  and  leaped  and  bounded  for  all  the  world,  the 
people  said,  like  the  jack-o'-lantern  that  flashes  over 
the  bogs  of  Dartmoor. 

They  danced,  with  pauses  for  rest  between  their  dances, 
all  the  day  long ;  and  when  they  were  so  very  tired  that 
they  could  dance  no  more,  Nonno  began  his  simple 
tricks  with  his  thimble  and  peas,  his  wooden  cups,  and 
his  little  tray  full  of  cards.  They  were  innocent  tricks, 
and  when  he  told  fortunes  by  the  cards  (which  Gemma 
expounded  to  whosoever  would  pay  a  penny  to  hear  the 
future)  he  dealt  out  fate  so  handsomely  that  such  a 
destiny  was  very  cheap  indeed  at  four  farthings. 

The  country-folks  were  pleased  and  content  to  have 
a  gilt  coach  and  horses  and  all  manner  of  good  luck 
promised  them  over  the  cards,  and  the  youths  liked  to 
look  at  pretty  Gemma,  who  was  so  unlike  the  maidens 
they  picked  apples  with,  or  sold  pilchards  to,  in  their 
green  Devon ;  and  so  the  day  wore  merrily  on  apace, 
and  the  afternoon  sun  was  slanting  towards  its  setting 
over  the  Cornish  shores  and  Cornish  seas  far  away  to 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRT.  175 

the  westward,  when  all  in  a  moment  there  was  a  shout 
of  "Police!  Police!"  and  the  good-humored  crowd 
hustled  together  and  made  way,  and  two  constables 
with  wooden  truncheons,  saying  never  a  word,  marched 
up  to  the  poor  little  tray-table,  swept  off  it  cards  and 
coins  and  conjuring  toys,  and  arrested  poor  old  trem- 
bling Nonno  in  the  sacred  name  of  the  Law ! 

Nonno  began  to  scream  a  million  words  to  a  minute, 
but,  alas !  they  were  all  Italian  words,  nobody  under 
stood  one  of  them.  Bindo  sobbed,  and  Gemma,  stand- 
ing a  moment  transfixed  with  horror,  flew  upon  the 
constable  who  had  taken  her  poor  old  grandfather  and 
bit  his  arm  till  the  blood  spurted.  Mad  with  pain,  the 
constable  seized  her,  not  gently,  and  clutched  Bindo  by 
the  collar  with  his  other  hand.  There  was  no  possi- 
bility of  resistance ;  Gemma  fought,  indeed,  like  a  little 
polecat,  but  the  men  were  too  strong  for  her ;  they  soon 
took  her  away  through  the  crowd  on  the  same  road  that 
Nonno  was  taking  peaceably,  and  when  the  crowd  mut- 
tered a  little  at  its  play  being  thus  spoiled,  the  consta- 
bles only  said,  gruffly,  "  Get  you  out  of  the  way,  or 
ye'll  be  clapped  in  jail  too,  maybe;  thimble-rigging, 
card -sharping,  posturing,  gambling,  swindling, — why, 
this  old  dodger  will  have  a  month  of  treadmill  if  he 
have  a  day  !" 

And  the  crowd  said  among  itself  that  to  be  sure  the 
old  fellow  was  a  foreigner,  it  would  not  do  to  get  into 
trouble  about  him,  and  most  likely  he  only  made  believe 
to  know  the  future ;  so  left  him  to  himself,  and  went 
to  the  alehouses  and  consoled  themselves  for  his  mis- 
fortunes in  draughts  of  cider. 

The  two  constables,  meanwhile,  consigned  the  old 


176  IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

man  and  his  grandchildren  to  the  lock-up:  Nonno  kept 
sighing  and  sobbing,  and  asking  innumerable  ques- 
tions in  his  own  tongue,  and  Bindo  shrieked  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  as  he  was  dragged  along;  Gemma 
alone,  now  that  she  was  vanquished,  was  mute.  Her 
lips  were  shut  and  silent,  but  her  eyes  spoke,  darting 
out  flames  of  fire  as  if  Vesuvius  itself  were  burning 
behind  thera.  For  four  whole  years  they  had  been 
wandering  about  the  southwest  part  of  England,  and 
had  done  no  less  and  no  more  than  they  had  done 
to-day,  and  never  had  they  been  told  that  it  was 
wrong. 

How  could  it  be  wrong  to  make  a  pea  jump  away 
from  under  a  wooden  cup,  and  promise  a  ploughman 
or  a  wagoner  a  coach  and  horses  if  it  pleased  him? 
For  if  Nonno  did  cheat  a  little,  ever  so  little,  poor  old 
man,  the  children  did  not  know  it,  and  whatever 
Nonno  did  was  always  to  them  alike  virtue  and  wis- 
dom. 

The  constables  were  very  angry  with  them;  Gemma 
had  bitten  one  of  them  as  if  she  were  a  little  wild-cat, 
and  the  old  man  seemed  to  them  a  sorry  old  rascal, 
living  by  his  wits  and  his  tricks  and  promising  the 
yokels  coaches-and-six  to  turn  a  penny.  Foreigners 
are  not  favored  by  the  rural  police  in  England ;  and 
whether  they  have  plaster  casts,  dancing  bears,  singing 
children,  performing  mice  or  monkeys,  or  only  a  few 
conjuring  toys,  like  poor  old  Epifania  Santo,  it  is  all 
one  to  the  rural  police:  down  they  go  as  members 
of  the  dangerous  classes.  If  the  market-folks  wanted 
diversion,  there  were  good,  honest  Punch  and  Judy 
generally  to  be  seen  on  fair-days ;  and  once  or  twice  a 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  177 

year,  at  the  great  cider  or  horse  fairs,  there  came  always 
a  show,  with  dwarfs,  and  giants,  and  a  calf  with  two 
heads :  what  more  could  any  country  population  need 
in  the  way  of  entertainment  ? 

Into  the  lock-up,  accordingly,  they  put  poor  Nonno 
and  his  grandchildren,  and  shut  and  locked  the  door 
upon  them. 

It  was  now  evening-time :  there  was  clean  straw  in 
the  place,  and  a  mug  of  water  and  some  bread.  Nonno 
and  Bindo  abandoned  themselves  to  the  uttermost  hope- 
lessness of  despair,  and  laid  themselves  face  downward 
on  the  straw,  sobbing  their  very  hearts  out.  Gemma 
was  dry-eyed,  her  forehead  was  crimson,  her  teeth  were 
set ;  she  was  consumed  with  rage,  that  burnt  up  alike 
her  terror  and  her  pain.  Oh,  why  did  not  a  handful 
of  Neapolitan  sailors  sail  over  the  water,  and  land,  and 
kill  all  these  English?  It  was  four  years  since  she 
had  seen  Naples,  but  she  remembered, — oh,  how  she 
remembered !  And  they  had  come  all  the  way  out  of 
their  own  sunshine  only  to  be  locked  up  in  a  trap  like 
rats !  Furious  thoughts  of  setting  fire  to  this  prison- 
house  beset  her ;  she  had  matches  in  her  pocket,  but  it 
would  be  hard  to  set  it  on  fire  without  consuming  them- 
selves with  it,  since  the  doors  were  fast  locked.  What 
could  she  do  ?  M'hat  could  she  do  ? 

"  Why  do  they  take  us  ?  We  have  done  no  harm," 
she  said,  through  her  shut  teeth. 

"  Carina  mia/'  sighed  her  grandfather,  shivering 
where  he  lay  on  the  straw,  "I  am  afraid  before  the 
law  we  are  no  better  than  the  owls  and  the  wood-rats 
are;  we  are  only  vagabonds;  we  have  no  dwelling  and 
we  have  no  trade." 


178  IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

"  We  pay  for  our  lodging,  and  we  pay  for  our 
bread !" 

"  Perhaps  they  do  not  believe  that.  Always  have  I 
been  so  afraid  this  would  happen,  and  now  it  has  come 
at  last." 

Tlie  poor  old  man  sank  back  on  the  straw  again, 
and  began  to  sob  piteously.  Why  had  he  left  the  merry 
crowds  of  the  Strada  del  Male,  where  there  was  always 
a  laugh  and  a  song,  and  a  slice  of  melon  or  of  pasta  f 

At  last  both  he  and  Bindo  sobbed  themselves  into 
sleep,  but  no  sleep  came  to  Gemma;  she  was  wide 
awake,  panting,  hot,  all  alive  with  fury,  all  the  night. 

With  morning  they  were  all  taken  before  the  magis- 
trates, who  were  sitting  that  day.  There  were  a  great 
many  gentlemen  and  officials,  but  among  them  all 
Gemma  only  saw  one,  the  horseman  whose  ears  she 
had  boxed  in  the  lane.  For  Philip  Carey  was  on  the 
bench  that  day,  and  recognized,  with  not  much  pleasure, 
the  little  group  of  Italian  strollers.  They  all  three 
looked  miserable,  jaded,  and  very  dusty.  The  night 
passed  in  the  lock-up  had  taken  all  their  look  of  sun- 
shiny merriment  away ;  the  straw  had  caught  on  their 
poor  garments;  the  faces  of  Nonno  and  the  little  boy 
were  swollen  and  disfigured  with  crying;  only  Gemma, 
all  dishevelled  and  dusty  and  feverish,  had  a  pride  and 
ferocity  about  her  that  gave  her  strength  and  kept  her 
beauty. 

As  she  was  the  only  one  who  could  talk  any  English, 
she  was  ordered  to  speak  for  the  others ;  but  when  she 
said  her  grandfather's  name  was  Epifania  Santo,  there 
was  a  laughter  in  the  court,  which  incensed  her  so 
bitterly  that  she  flung  back  her  curls  out  of  her  eyes 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  179 

and  said,  "  If  you  do  not  believe  what  I  say,  why  do 
you  want  me  to  speak  ?" 

Then  being  once  started  she  went  on  before  any  of 
the  magistrates  or  officials  could  stop  her :  "  You  have 
taken  us  up;  why  have  you  taken  us  up?  we  have 
done  nobody  any  sort  of  harm.  We  only  dance,  and 
Nonno  tells  fortunes,  and  does  the  tricks,  and  you  have 
taken  his  box  away,  and  do  you  call  that  honest  to  a 
poor  man?  We  do  not  rob,  we  do  not  kill,  we  do  not 
hurt;  when  Bindo  takes  an  apple  I  am  angry."  And 
then  her  English,  which  was  apt  to  go  away  from  her 
in  moments  of  excitement,  failed  her  utterly,  and  she 
poured  out  a  torrent  of  Neapolitan  patois  which  not  a 
soul  there  present  understood,  only  from  her  flashing 
eyes  and  her  expressive  gestures  it  was  easy  to  guess 
that  it  meant  vehement  invective  and  reproach. 

Mr.  Carey  looked  at  her  attentively,  but  he  said 
nothing;  his  brother  magistrates,  when  she  had  been 
peremptorily  ordered  to  be  still  and  listen,  put  a  few 
sharp  questions  to  her  and  examined  the  witnesses, 
who  were  policemen  and  country-people,  and  who  all 
deposed  to  the  fact  that  the  old  Italian  did  tricks  and 
told  fortunes  and  got  them  to  put  their  pence  down  by 
fair  promises,  and  had  moreover  dice  and  cards  whereby 
he  induced  them  to  lose  money.  The  children  only 
danced;  they  had  no  habitation;  they  were  always 
wandering  about ;  by  their  papers  they  were  natives  of 
Naples.  Then  the  constable  whose  arm  Gemma  had 
bitten  appeared  with  it  in  a  sling,  and  stated  what  she 
had  done  to  him,  and  this  terrible  piece  of  violence 
prejudiced  the  whole  court  greatly  against  her. 

Mr.  Carey  smiled  once;   he  took  no  share  in  the 


180  I^  '^^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

examination.  But  Gemma  was  always  looking  at  him ; 
ehe  was  always  thinking,  "  This  is  all  his  doing  because 
I  struck  him :  he  has  had  us  all  put  in  prison  because 
I  offended  him." 

She  hated  him, — oh,  how  she  hated  him !  If  she 
had  not  been  so  watched  and  warded  by  the  constables, 
she  would  have  leaped  across  the  court  and  done  the 
same  thing  again.  For  she  did  not  mind  anything  for 
herself;  but  if  they  put  Nonno  and  Bindo  back  in 
prison,  and  parted  them  from  her, — she  knew  people 
were  parted  in  prison  and  boys  and  girls  were  never 
together  there,  nor  ever  the  old  left  with  the  young. 
And  she  knew  too  that  in  England  there  were  prisons 
called  workhouses,  where  they  packed  away  all  the 
people  who  were  poor.  Her  heart  stood  still  with 
fright,  and  all  she  saw  in  the  dusky  court  was  the 
grave  face  of  Philip  Carey,  which  seemed  to  her  like 
the  stony  face  of  Fate. 

"Ah,  himha  mia,"  sobbed  her  grandfather  in  a 
whisper,  "yonder  is  the  gentleman  you  struck  as  he 
rode  on  his  horse.  You  have  been  our  undoing  with 
your  fiery  temper:  always  was  I  afraid  that  you 
would  be !" 

Under  that  reproof  Gemma's  head  drooped  and  all 
the  color  fled  out  of  her  cheeks.  She  knew  that  it  waa 
a  just  one. 

Bindo,  meanwhile,  was  clinging  to  her  skirts  and 
whimpering  like  a  poor  little  beaten  puppy,  till  she 
thought  her  very  brain  would  go  mad,  whirling  round 
and  round  in  such  misery. 

The  magistrates  spoke  together,  Mr.  Carey  alone 
saying  little:    there  was  a  strong  feeling  against  aJ' 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  tg] 

strollers  at  that  time  in  the  county,  on  account  of 
many  robberies  that  had  been  committed  on  outlying 
farms  by  tramps  and  gypsies  in  the  last  few  years,  and 
many  raids  that  had  been  made  on  poultry-houses, 
apple-lofts,  and  sheep-folds.  Epifania  Santo  and  his 
grandchildren  only  seemed  to  the  bench  idle,  useless, 
and  not  harmless  vagrants,  no  better  than  the  wood- 
rats,  as  old  Nonno  had  said ;  whilst  the  fierce  onslaught 
on  the  constable  of  which  Gemma  had  been  guilty  gave 
their  misdeeds  a  darker  color  in  the  eyes  of  the  Devon 
gentlemen. 

After  some  consultation  and  some  disagreement 
among  the  magistrates,  the  old  man,  having  no  visible 
means  of  subsistence,  was  condemned  to  a  month's 
imprisonment  for  unlawfully  gambling  and  deceiving 
the  public,  whilst  Bindo  and  Gemma  were  respectively 
ordered  to  be  consigned  to  reformatories.  In  consider- 
ation of  Epifania  Santo's  age,  and  of  his  being  a 
foreigner,  he  was  spared  hard  labor.  When  Gemma 
comprehended  the  sentence,  and  the  old  man  had  been 
made  to  understand  it  also,  such  a  scene  of  grief  and 
of  despair  ensued  as  no  English  court  had  ever  beheld. 
To  the  slow  and  stolid  folk  of  the  banks  of  Dart  it 
seemed  as  if  madness  had  descended  straight  upon 
these  strangers.  Their  passionate  paroxysms  of  woe 
had  no  limit,  and  no  likeness  to  anything  ever  seen  in 
Devon  before. 

Gemma  had  to  be  torn  by  main  force  from  her 
brother  and  grandfather,  and,  writhing  in  the  hands 
of  the  constables  as  an  otter  writhes  on  a  spear,  she 
shook  her  little  clinched  fists  at  the  bench,  and,  seeing 
there  only  the  face  of  Philip  Carey,  who  to  her  belief 
16 


132  ^^  ^^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

was  sole  author  of  all  her  sorrows  and  ills,  she  cried 
to  him,  "  I  struck  you  yesterday,  I  will  hurt  you  more 
before  many  days  are  over.  You  are  a  wicked,  wicked, 
wicked  man !" 

Then  the  policeman  seized  her  more  roughly,  and 
put  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  and  carried  her  away  by 
sheer  force. 

"Did  that  little  jade  really  strike  you  a  blow, 
Carey?"  asked  one  of  his  fellow-magistrates,  in  sur- 
prise. 

Mr.  Carey  smiled  a  little.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  But  I  had  deserved  it." 

"  I  wonder  you  wanted  us  to  be  more  lenient,  then." 

"One  cannot  be  revenged  on  a  child,"  he  answered, 
"  and  they  are  children  of  the  sun ;  they  have  hotter 
passions  than  ours,  and  quicker  oblivion.  It  would 
have  been  better  to  have  given  them  a  little  money  and 
shipped  them  back  to  Naples.  But  you  outnumbered 
me.  The  old  man  is  inoffensive,  I  think.  After  all, 
a  penny  was  not  much  for  a  yokel  to  pay  to  be  blessed 
by  the  promise  of  a  coach-and-six." 

But  his  fellow-magistrates  did  not  see  the  matter 
in  this  light,  and  thought  the  old  stroller  well  out 
of  mischief  in  the  jail  of  Dartmouth.  Philip  Carey 
two  days  before  would  have  thought  so  with  them, 
for  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  severe  on  the 
bench ;  but  the  sunny,  dusky,  ardent  face  of  Gemma 
had  touched  him,  and  the  love  of  the  three  for  each 
other  seemed  enviable  to  him.  He  had  been  all  alone 
since  his  early  boyhood,  and  such  affection  as  theirs 
seemed  to  him  a  beautiful  and  priceless  treasure. 
It  was  cruel,  he  thought,  to  tear  it  asunder,  as  cruel 


IN   THE  APPLE-COVNTRV.  183 

as  to  pluck  all  to  pieces  a  red  rose  just  flowered  to 
the  light. 

He  rode  home  that  evening  in  the  twilight,  some- 
what saddened,  and  doubtful  whether  the  law  was  as 
just  and  unerring  a  thing  as  he  had  always  until  then 
believed  it. 

The  night  saw  poor  old  Nonno  put  in  prison  as  if 
he  were  a  thief,  and  saw  the  children  severed  and 
taken  respectively  to  the  boys'  and  the  girls'  asylum 
in  a  reformatory  for  naughty  children,  which  some 
good  people  with  the  best  intentions  had  built  and 
endowed  in  the  neighborhood.  They  had  so  clung 
together,  and  so  madly  resisted  being  parted,  that  they 
had  fairly  frightened  the  men  and  women  in  charge 
of  them.  They  had  never  been  away  from  each  other 
an  hour  in  their  lives  ever  since  little  Bindo  had  been 
born  one  summer  day  in  the  cabin  by  the  Mediterra- 
nean and  laid  in  the  half  of  a  great  gourd  as  a  cradle 
for  his  sister's  wondering  eyes  to  admire.  But  severed 
now  they  were,  and  whilst  poor  Bindo  in  the  boys' 
ward  was  subjected  to  such  a  scrubbing  as  he  had 
never  had  in  all  his  days,  and  his  abundant  auburn 
curls  were  cut  short.  Gemma — whose  paroxysms  of 
passion  had  given  place  to  a  stolid  and  strange  qui- 
etude— was  also  bathed,  and  clothed  in  the  clothes  of 
the  reformatory,  whilst  her  many-colored  sash,  her  pic- 
turesque petticoats,  and  her  coral  ear-rings  and  necklace 
were  all  taken  away,  fumigated,  rolled  up  in  a  bundle, 
and  ticketed  with  a  number.  She  submitted,  but  her 
great  eyes  glared  and  glowed  strangely,  and  she  was 
perfectly  mute.  Not  a  single  sound  could  those  set  in 
command  over  her  force  from  her  lips. 


184  J^  I'SE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

The  superiors  were  used  to  stubborn  children,  savage 
children,  timid  children,  vicious  children ;  but  this 
silence  of  hers,  following  on  her  delirium  of  fury  and 
grief,  was  new  and  startling  to  them. 

She  looked  very  odd,  clad  perforce  in  some  straightly- 
cut  stiff  gray  clothes,  and  when  she  was  set  down,  one 
of  a  long  row,  to  have  supper  oif  oatmeal  porridge,  the 
handsome,  pale,  desperate  little  face  of  hers,  with  burn- 
ing eyes  and  an  arched  red  mouth,  looked  amidst  the 
faces  of  the  other  little  girls  like  a  carnation  among 
cabbage-stalks.  Not  a  morsel  would  she  eat;  not  a 
word  would  she  speak ;  at  no  one  would  she  even 
look. 

"  Oh,  Nonno !  oh,  Bindo !"  her  heart  kept  crying, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst,  but  never  a  sound 
escaped  her. 

Poor  little  Bindo,  meanwhile,  was  sobbing  every 
minute,  but  he  ate  his  porridge,  though  he  watered 
it  with  floods  of  tears,  where  he  was  set  among  a  score 
of  gray-clad,  crop-headed  English  boys,  who  were 
gaping  and  grinning  at  him. 

With  the  close  of  evening  Bindo  was  stowed  away 
in  the  boys'  dormitory,  and  Gemma  was  led  to  one  of 
a  number  of  narrow  little  iron  beds  with  blue  counter- 
panes. She  was  undressed  and  bidden  to  lie  down, 
which  she  did.  Her  bed  was  the  last  of  the  row,  and 
next  to  the  wall :  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and 
they  thought  her  resigned.  Soon  the  light  was  put 
out,  and  the  little  sleepers  were  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

But  Gemma  never  closed  her  eyes.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  be  beating  all  over  her  body.  She  stuffed 
the  sheet  into  her  mouth,  and  bit  it  hard  to  keep  in  the 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  135 

cries  of  agony  that  sprang  to  her  lips.  Would  she 
ever  see  Nonno  again?  Bindo  she  might,  perhaps, 
but  Nonno, — she  was  sure  he  would  die  in  prison. 

There  was  a  window  in  the  wall  near  the  bed ;  it  was 
unshuttered.  She  could  see  the  gray  of  the  evening 
change  to  the  dark  of  the  night,  and  then  the  moon 
came  out, — the  harvest-moon,  as  they  called  it  here. 
She  was  only  waiting  for  every  one  to  be  asleep  to  get 
up  and  look  out  of  that  window  and  see  whether  it 
would  let  her  escape.  An  under-matron  slept  in  the 
dormitory,  but  at  the  farther  end,  where  everything 
was  quite  hushed,  and  when  the  slow  breathing  of 
the  children  told  that  they  were  all  sleeping  soundly, 
Gemma  got  up  in  her  bed  and  sat  erect.  Finding  all 
was  still,  she  put  one  foot  out  of  bed,  and  then  an- 
other, and  very  softly  stole  to  the  window.  It  was  a 
lattice  window,  and  left  a  little  open,  for  the  night  was 
warm.  A  sweet  smell  of  moist  fields,  of  growing 
grass,  of  honeysuckle  hedges,  came  up  on  the  night 
air.  Gemma  noiselessly  opened  the  window  a  little 
farther  and  looked  out:  it  was  far,  far  down  to  the 
ground  below :  still,  she  thought  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  escape.  She  stole  back  to  the  bedside,  put  on  the 
hideous,  ungainly  cotton  clothes  as  well  as  she  could 
in  the  dark,  and  knotted  the  skirt  of  the  frock  tight 
round  her  limbs  so  as  to  leave  them  untrammelled. 
If  no  one  awoke,  she  could  get  away,  she  reflected ; 
for  her  quick  eyes  had  seen  a  rain-pipe  that  passed 
from  the  casement  to  the  ground. 

She  paused  a  few  moments,  making  sure,  quite  sure, 
that  every  one  in  the  long  dormitory  was  asleep.  As 
she  stood,  she  saw  some  hundred  matches  lying  by  a 
16* 


18Q  IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

lamp,  of  which  the  light  was  put  out,  on  a  little  table 
near.  A  cruel  joy  danced  into  her  eyes  :  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  took  the  matches  and  slipped  them 
in  the  bosom  of  her  frock.  Then,  with  the  courage 
of  desperation,  she  climbed  to  the  window-seat,  put 
half  her  body  out  of  it,  and,  clinging  to  the  iron 
pipe  with  both  hands,  let  herself  slide  down,  down, 
down,  to  where  she  knew  not.  All  was  dark  beneath 
her. 

But  if  she  slid  into  the  sea  that  would  be  better,  shf 
said  to  herself,  than  to  live  on  imprisoned. 

As  it  happened,  the  window  was  twenty  feet  and 
more  from  the  earth,  but  the  turf  was  beneath,  and 
the  rain-pipe  was  so  made  that  she  could  easily  clasp 
it  with  feet  and  hands  and  glide  down  it,  only  grazing 
all  the  skin  off  her  palms,  and  bruising  her  knees  and 
her  chest.  No  one  heard  her,  there  was  no  alarm 
given;  she  reached  the  ground  in  safety  as  a  village 
clock  tolled  ten. 

She  dropped  all  in  a  heap,  and  lay  still,  half  stunned, 
for  some  moments;  soon  she  got  her  breath  and  her 
wits  again,  and  rose  up  on  her  feet  and  looked  about 
her.  She  knew  all  tlie  country-side  well,  having  been 
here  ever  since  the  apple- orchards  had  been  in  blossom, 
and,  when  they  had  not  been  performing,  having  scam- 
pered hither  and  thither  with  Bindo,  begging  honey  or 
eggs  at  the  cottages,  or  coaxing  the  boatmen  to  let  them 
drift  down  the  river. 

The  moon  was  now  very  bright,  and  she  saw  that 
she  stood  near  the  Dart  water,  and  she  could  discover 
here  a  steeple,  there  a  gable,  yonder  a  windmill,  and  so 
forth,  by  which  she  could  tell  where  slie  was.     She  had 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  Igy 

been  brought  in  a  covered  van  to  the  reformatory,  and 
had  only  known  that  it  was  near  Dartmouth. 

The  grass  on  which  she  stood  grew  under  a  low  wall, 
and  beyond  the  wall  was  a  towing-path,  and  beyond 
that  the  river.  The  towing-path  she  knew  well ;  she 
and  Bindo  had  often  ridden  on  the  backs  of  the  tow- 
ing-horses  or  got  a  seat  in  the  big  barges  by  just  singing 
their  little  songs  and  twanging  their  tambourines. 

The  towing-path  served  her  purpose  well.  She 
looked  back  at  the  big  pile  behind  her,  a  white,  square, 
grim-looking  place;  Bindo  was  sleeping  under  its  roof; 
then  she  hardened  her  heart,  vaulted  over  the  river- 
wall,  and  began  to  run  down  the  river-path. 

She  did  not  hesitate,  for  she  had  a  very  wicked  re- 
solve in  her  soul,  and  her  goal  was  four  miles  away, 
she  knew,  as  a  water-mill  on  the  other  bank  among 
willows  was  an  old  friend  of  hers,  and  told  her  her 
whereabouts.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  house  be- 
hind her ;  not  a  creature  had  awakened,  or  the  alarm- 
bell  would  have  been  clanging  and  lights  appearing  at 
every  window.  She  was  quite  safe  thus  far,  and  she 
began  to  run  along  the  dewy  grassy  path  where  the 
glowworms  were  twinkling  at  every  step  under  the 
ferns  and  the  dock  leaves. 

"  The  wicked,  wicked  man !"  she  kept  saying  in  her 
teeth. 

She  never  saw  the  pretty  glowworms  she  was  so 
fond  of  at  other  times,  or  heard  the  nightingales  sing- 
ing in  the  woods,  for  when  a  sin  is  in  the  soul  it  makes 
the  eyes  blind  and  the  ears  deaf.  She  only  ran  on, 
stumbling  often  and  feeling  for  the  matches  in  the 
bosom  of  her  ugly  gray  cotton  frock.     The  frock  was 


188  I^  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

irksome  to  her :  she  longed  for  her  own  short  skirts 
and  pliable  bodice,  and  she  missed  the  scarf  about  her 
loins,  and  the  necklace  at  her  throat.  But  she  ran  on 
and  on,  having  a  set  purpose  and  a  great  crime  in  her 
mind. 

She  knew  that  if  she  only  followed  the  towing-path 
long  enough  she  would  come  to  the  place  called  Carey's 
Honor. 

She  knew  it  well :  she  had  often  looked  over  its 
white  gates  and  envied  the  calves  and  the  lambs  in 
its  pastures,  and  wondered  what  the  rooms  were  like 
within  beyond  the  rose-hung  windows,  and  sighed  for 
the  nectarines  and  the  cherries  that  grew  in  its  green 
old  garden-ways.  It  might  be  farther  or  nearer  than 
she  fancied ;  that  she  could  not  be  sure  about ;  but  she 
knew  that  if  she  went  on  long  enough  along  the  Dart 
water  she  would  come  to  it.  She  did  not  feel  at  all 
frightened  at  being  out  all  alone  so  late ;  after  the  ex- 
citement and  despair  of  the  day  she  seemed  to  have  no 
feeling  left  except  this  one  burning,  consuming,  terrible 
longing  for  vengeance,  which  made  her  feet  fly  over 
the  towing-path  to  the  peaceful  Elizabethan  house 
lying  among  its  yews  and  limes  and  stacks  and  hives 
and  byres  in  the  moonlight. 

She  had  been  running  and  walking  an  hour  and  a 
half  or  more,  when  a  bend  in  the  water  showed  her 
the  twisted  chimney-stacks  and  the  black-and-white 
wood-work  and  the  honeysuckle-covered  porches  of 
the  homestead,  with  the  moon  shining  above  it  and 
the  green  uplands  sloping  behind.  Then  Gemma, 
whose  young  soul  was  now  so  full  of  wickedness  that 
there  was  not  a  spot  of  light  left  in  it,  climbed  over 


IN  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  189 

the  white  wooden  gate  and  crept  up  over  the  wide 
grass-lands  where  the  cattle  were  asleep  and  the  big 
ox-eye  daisies  were  shut  up  at  rest.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  sweet  smell  of  the  dog-rose,  of  the  honeysuckle, 
of  the  sweet  brier,  and  away  across  the  meadows  the 
black-and-white  timbers  and  the  deep  gables  of  the 
old  house  were  distinct  in  the  moon-rays. 

She  crossed  the  pastures  and  opened  a  little  wicket 
that  was  never  latched,  and  got  into  the  gardens,  where 
the  stocks  and  picotees  and  gilly -flowers  and  moss  roses 
and  sweet  williams  and  all  other  dear  old-fashioned 
blossoms  were  filling  the  night  with  their  fragrance. 
But  Gemma  had  no  thought  for  them.  She  crept  on 
up  to  the  house,  and  saw  that  in  one  part  the  thatched 
roof  came  down  so  low  to  the  ground  that,  standings 
on  a  stone  bench  which  was  beneath,  she  would  be  able 
to  touch  it.  She  sprang  on  to  the  bench,  drew  her 
matches  out  of  her  bosom,  struck  light  to  them,  and 
was  about  to  thrust  the  blazing  bunch  into  the  thatch, 
when  a  huge  dog  bounded  out  of  the  shadow,  leaped 
on  her,  and  knocked  her  head  downwards  off  the  stone 
seat  on  to  the  grass  :  he  would  have  torn  her  to  pieces, 
only  he  was  such  a  great  and  good  creature  that,  seeing 
she  was  a  child,  he  was  merciful  in  his  strength. 

"  Monarch,  what  is  it,  my  lad  ?"  said  Philip  Carey, 
as  he  came  out  from  the  open  door  of  the  porch, 
alarmed  at  the  noise  of  the  fall. 

The  Newfoundland  left  her  and  went  to  his  master, 
and  Mr.  Carey  saw  the  form  of  Gemma  lying  prone 
upon  his  gravel  and  the  bundle  of  blazing  matches 
still  clutched  in  her  clinched  hand. 

"  Good  heavens !  the  child  came  to  burn  my  house 


190  ^^   "^^^  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

down!"  he  cried,  half  aloud,  as  he  stooped  over  her  and 
lifted  her  up :  she  had  fallen  on  the  back  of  her  head 
and  was  stunned  into  insensibility  for  the  moment. 
He  wrenched  the  burning  matches  out  of  her  tightly- 
closed  fingers  and  stamped  the  fire  out  of  them  with 
his  heel.  That  was  soon  done,  and  when  the  danger- 
ous things  were  mere  harmless  splinters  of  wood  he 
lifted  the  insensible  form  of  the  child  up  in  his  arms 
and  carried  her  into  his  house. 

"  She  has  escaped  from  the  reformatory,"  he  thought, 
as  he  saw  the  ugly  gray  cotton  gown  and  the  blue  apron 
that  was  tacked  on  to  it. 

He  laid  her  gently  on  a  couch,  and  called  his  house- 
keeper, a  white-haired,  kindly  old  woman,  with  cheeks 
like  the  apples  that  crowded  his  orchards  in  October. 

"  Monarch  knocked  this  little  girl  down,  and  she  is 
senseless  with  the  fall.  Will  you  do  your  best  for  her, 
Mary  ?  She  is  one  of  the  Home  children,"  he  said  to 
tlie  old  dame,  and  he  did  not  add  a  word  about  the 
matches. 

The  housekeeper's  simple  remedies  soon  recalled 
Gemma  back  to  her  senses,  and  she  opened  her  great, 
frightened,  humid  eyes  to  the  light  of  the  lamp-lit 
room. 

"I zolfini,  IzoIJini!"  she  murmured,  thinking  of  her 
matches  and  vaguely  fancying  that  she  was  in  the  midst 
of  flames.  All  her  English  had  gone  clean  away  from 
her. 

"  It  is  that  foreign  child,  master,"  said  the  house- 
keeper,— "  the  one  that  has  been  roaming  the  country 
ever  since  Candlemas ;  I  caught  her  little  brother  at 
the  hen-house  at  Easter-time,  and  spanked  him.    They 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  IQl 

were  both  of  them  sentenced,  weren't  they,  in  town 
this  morning,  and  the  old  grandfather  too  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carey,  curtly,  "  she  has  run  away, 
that  is  evident.  Suppose  you  go  and  get  some  little 
room  ready  for  her,  for  she  will  not  be  able  to  go  back 
to-night.  She  is  all  right  now,  I  fancy,  though  she  is 
not  yet  fairly  awake." 

"  One  of  the  attics,  master  ?  Shall  she  sleep  with 
Hannah  ? — not  as  Hannah  will  stomach  it,  a  little 
waif  and  stray  out  of  prison " 

"  No,  no  ;  get  her  a  nice  little  room  ready  anywhere 
you  like,  but  one  that  is  comfortable.  She  is  a  very 
forlorn  little  maid  :  we  must  be  good  to  her,  Mary." 

"  Her  little  brother  was  at  the  hen-house,  and  I 
spanked  him " 

"  She  is  not  her  brother,"  said  Philip  Carey,  im- 
patiently.    "  Leave  me  with  her  a  little." 

Though  her  master  was  very  gentle,  the  house- 
keeper knew  that  he  chose  to  be  obeyed,  and  she 
trotted  off  up  the  broad  oak  staircase  obediently. 

Philip  Carey  remained  beside  Gemma;  and  the  big 
black  dog  also  sat  looking  at  her,  with  his  head  held 
critically  on  one  side,  for  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
about  her. 

"  You  came  to  burn  my  house  down  ?"  said  Mr. 
Carey,  gravely,  as  he  looked  full  into  her  face. 

She  understood  what  he  said,  but  she  did  not  answer. 
Her  mind  was  still  confused ;  she  remembered  what 
she  had  come  to  do,  and  she  began  to  understand  that 
she  had  failed  to  do  it  and  was  in  the  power  of  this  man 
whom  she  hated. 

"  I  caught  you  in  the  act,"  he  continued,  sternly  • 


192  ^^  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

"  and  if  my  dog  had  not  thrown  you  down  you  would 
probably  have  succeeded,  for  old  thatch  burns  like  tin- 
der. Now,  will  you  tell  me  why  you  wished  to  do  me 
so  great  an  injury  ?" 

Gemma  was  still  mute ;  her  brows  were  drawn  to- 
gether, her  eyes  underneath  them  were  flashing  and 
sombre ;  she  had  raised  herself  on  one  arm  on  the 
cushions  of  the  couch,  and  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Carey,  "  that 
the  crime  of  arson,  the  crime  you  tried  to  commit,  is 
one  punished  by  only  less  severity  than  is  shown  to 
murder.  Very  often  it  becomes  murder  too,  when 
people  are  burned,  as  they  often  are,  in  the  house 
that  is  fired.  For  the  mere  attempt  I  can  have  you 
imprisoned  for  many  years.  Now  tell  me,  I  order 
you  to  tell  me  instantly,  why  you  desired  to  injure  me 
so  hideously?" 

Gemma  followed  his  words  and  gathered  their  mean- 
ing, and  felt  forced  to  obey.  But  all  the  passion  of 
hate  and  of  pain  in  her  surged  up  in  broken  utterances, 
for  the  foreign  language  was  ill  able  to  convey  all  the 
vehemence  of  emotion  and  of  indignation  raging  in  her 
heart. 

"  I  came — I  came — I  came,"  she  muttered,  "  I  came 
to  burn  your  house :  yes ;  why  not  ?  I  told  you  in  the 
morning  I  would  do  something  worse  to  you.  I  did 
strike  you,  but  you  had  deserved  it.  You  had  said  I 
was  immodest ;  and  then  because  you  were  angry  you 
had  us  all  taken  up  by  the  police,  and  you  put  dear 
Nonno  in  prison  as  if  he  were  a  thief,  when  he  is  so 
honest  that  he  scolds  Bindo  if  Bindo  takes  an  apple, 
and  you  have  parted  me  and  Bindo,  and  shut  us  in  a 


/;V^  THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  I93 

horrible  ijlace,  and  they  have  cut  our  hair  and  washed 
us,  and  I  saw  I  could  get  away  to-night,  and  I  did, 
and  I  dropped  through  the  window  ;  and  the  matches 
were  there,  and  I  said  to  myself  I  would  burn  your 
house  down  ;  I  had  heard  people  say  that  you  were 
fond  of  your  house,  and  if  you  say  that  it  was  wicked 
of  me,  it  has  been  you  who  have  been  wicked  first. 
You  are  a  bad,  vile,  cruel  man  to  shut  dear  Nonno 
into  your  prisons,  and  he  nearly  ottanf  uno  years  old, 
and  so  good  and  so  kind  and  so  merry ;  and  never  will 
we  see  him  again,  and  sooner  than  go  back  to  that  place 
which  you  put  me  in,  I  will  drown  myself  in  your  rivei 

there,  or  make  your  dog  tear  me  to  pieces -" 

Then  the  poor  little  soul  burst  into  a  rain  of  tears 
enough  to  have  extinguished  a  million  lighted  lucifer 
matches  or  the  very  fires  of  a  burning  house  had  there 
been  one. 

Philip  Carey  allowed  the  tempest  of  grief  to  exhaust 
itself;  then  he  said  to  her,  in  a  grave  and  very  sweet 
voice,  yet  a  little  sternly, — 

"  My  poor  little  girl,  you  were  ready  to  take  a  great 
crime  on  your  little  white  soul  to-night;  and  who 
knows  where  its  evil  might  have  stopped  ?  Fire  is  not 
a  plaything.  Now,  I  want  you  to  listen  to  what  I  have 
to  say  about  myself.  I  am  a  magistrate,  and  I  was  on 
the  bench  to-day,  it  is  true.  But  I  did  not  appr-ove  of 
the  sentence  passed  on  you  by  men  of  greater  age  and 
weight  in  the  county  than  I  am,  and  I  tried  my  best, 
vainly,  to  have  it  mitigated.  I  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  your  grandfather's  arrest.  What  he  did, 
harmless  though  it  seems,  was  yet  against  the  law;  and 
the  mayor  of  the  town  chose  to  enforce  the  law  against 

I         n  17 


194  J^  "THE  APPLE-COUNTRT. 

him.  More  than  this,  my  dear,  not  only  would  I  not, 
had  I  been  alone,  have  sentenced  your  grandfather  in 
so  severe  a  manner,  but  I  would  have  aided  you  all  to 
return  to  your  own  country.  As  it  is,  I  mean  to-mor- 
row to  use  what  influence  I  possess  to  endeavor  to  ob- 
tain a  remission  of  your  grandfather's  sentence,  and  1 
meant  also  to  go  across  to  Portsmouth  and  see  the 
Italian  consul  there,  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  he 
could  not  help  you  to  go  back  to  Naples  if  I  could 
succeed  in  getting  your  punishments  remitted,  as  I 
hoped  to  do." 

He  paused,  and  Gemma  gazed  at  him  with  dilated 
eyes  and  a  hot  color  on  her  cheeks.  She  was  silent 
and  ashamed. 

"  Now  you  have  spoiled  it  all,"  continued  Mr.  Carey : 
"how  can  I  beg  for  a  little  incendiary  to  be  let  loose 
on  the  world  ?  And  my  gardener  will  see  those  lucifer 
matches  in  the  morning,  and  every  one  will  know  or 
guess  then  what  you  came  to  do,  and  why  my  dog 
Monarch  sprang  on  you." 

The  color  went  out  of  her  face,  and  her  lips  quivered. 
"  But  it  was  only  me,"  she  said,  piteously.  "  Nonno 
would  not  have  tried  to  fire  your  house,  nor  Bindo. 
It  was  only  me.  Could  you  not  punish  me  all  by  my- 
self and  let  them  out?  If  you  will  only  let  them  out, 
I  will  go  back  to  prison,  and  I  will  not  run  away  again : 
I  will  bear  it  all  my  life  if  I  must,  if  you  will  only 
let  out  Nonno  and  Bindo  !" 

"My  dear,"  answered  Philip  Carey,  "I  have  no 
power :  I  cannot  deal  you  out  life  and  death,  as  you 
seem  to  think.  You  are  a  dangerous  and  fierce  little 
tigress,  of  that  there  is  no  doubt;  but  I  do  not  think 


IN    THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  195 

the  reformatory,  good  as  it  is,  would  improve  you  much. 
Suppose  we  make  a  bargain :  if  you  will  promise  me 
to  try  and  be  good,  I  will  promise  you  to  try  and  liber- 
ate you  all  three,  and  send  you  all  back  in  a  good  ship 
to  your  own  country." 

With  as  much  rapidity  as  she  had  sprung  up  on  his 
saddle  to  box  his  ears,  Gemma  sprang  off  the  couch, 
and,  to  his  great  amazement,  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissed  him. 

"  Oh,  you  are  good !"  she  murmured,  rapturously. 
"  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you  as  much  as  I 
hated  you  yesterday !" 

And  she  was  so  pretty  that  Philip  Carey  could  not 
be  angry  with  her  any  more. 

She  slept  soundly  that  night  under  the  roof  she  had 
tried  to  burn,  and  in  the  morning  had  the  most  tempt- 
ing breakfast  brought  to  her  on  her  little  bed  that  she 
had  ever  imagined  in  all  her  life,  and  Monarch  came 
and  put  his  big  muzzle  down  on  the  snowy  counterpane, 
and  made  friends  with  her  over  honey  and  muffins  and 
cream. 

Mr.  Carey  kept  his  promise,  and,  by  means  of  con- 
tinuous efforts  for  some  ten  days,  succeeded  in  getting 
the  release  of  poor  old  Epifania  Santo  and  of  Bindo, 
and  obtaining  also  for  them  a  free  passage  by  a  sail»ig- 
ship  then  loading  in  Devonport  and  bound  to  go  down 
Channel  to  the  south  coast  of  Italy  with  a  cargo  of  iron 
and  steel. 

During  this  time  that  he  was  thus  returning  good  for 
evil  and  exerting  himself  in  her  cause.  Gemma  remained 
under  the  care  of  his  housekeeper,  and  saw  him  very 
often  in  each  day,  and  had  a  simple,  pretty,  white  linen 


196  IN   'THE  APPLE-COUNTRY. 

frock  made  for  her,  and  spent  all  her  time  in  the  gar- 
dens and  orchards  and  meadows  with  Monarch  and  the 
other  dogs  of  the  house. 

When  Philip  Carey  at  last  announced  to  her  that  all 
was  arranged  for  their  departure  by  the  sailing-vessel, 
and  that  she  would  meet  her  brother  and  grandfather 
at  the  docks,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  cloud  sweep 
over  her  mobile  face,  and  great  tears  fill  her  eyes  once 
more. 

"  Cannot  we  stay  ?  cannot  we  stay  ?"  she  said,  with  a 
sob.  "  Grandfather  is  so  afraid  of  the  sea,  and  Bindo 
will  be  so  sorry  to  leave  before  the  apples  are  ripe,  and 
me, — I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you .'" 

"Do  you  like  me  a  little,  then?"  said  Mr.  Carey, 
astonished  and  touched. 

"  Oh,  so  much !"  said  Gemma,  with  a  great  sigh. 
"  You  have  been  so  kind,  and  I  have  been  so  wicked." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  much  surprised,  then  an- 
swered,— 

"  Well,  it  might  perhaps  be  arranged.  Your  grand- 
father is  very  old  for  a  voyage,  and  there  is  a  little 
cottage  down  beyond  ray  orchards  that  he  might  have ; 
but.  Gemma,  if  I  let  you  stay  on  my  land,  you  must 
promise  me  to  be  very  reasonable  and  obedient,  and  to 
learn  all  you  are  told  to  learn,  and  never  to  give  way 
to  your  furious  passions." 

"  Oh,  I  will  be  so  good  !"  she  cried,  in  ecstasy,  as  she 
sprang  up  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him  again.  "  I  will 
be  so  good !  and  when  I  am  with  you  I  forget  that  we 
never  really  see  the  sun,  and  Bindo  says  he  is  sure  that 
your  apples  are  better  than  our  grapes  and  figs  auu 
oranges  at  home." 


IN   THE  APPLE-COUNTRY.  197 

"  It  is  well  you  should  think  so,  if  you  are  to  live 
all  your  lives  amidst  the  apples,"  said  Philip  Carey, 
with  a  smile. 

So  they  stayed  there ;  and  a  few  years  later,  when 
Gemma  had  grown  a  most  beautiful  young  girl,  and 
become  wise  and  gentle  as  well,  though  she  still  kept 
her  April  face  that  was  all  sunshine  and  storm  in  the 
same  moment,  Philip  Carey  made  her  his  wife  and 
Monarch's  mistress;  and  she  is  still  always  ready  to 
declare  that  apples  are  the  best  and  sweetest  fruit  that 
grows.     For,  you  see,  Love  gathers  them  for  her. 


FINDELKIND. 


There  was  a  little  boy,  a  year  or  two  ago,  who  lived 
under  the  shadow  of  Martiuswand.  Most  people  know, 
I  should  suppose,  that  the  Martinswand  is  that  moun- 
tain in  the  Oberinnthal  where,  several  centuries  past, 
brave  Kaiser  Max  lost  his  footing  as  he  stalked  the 
chamois,  and  fell  upon  a  ledge  of  rock,  and  stayed  there, 
in  mortal  peril,  for  thirty  hours,  till  he  was  rescued  by 
the  strength  and  agility  of  a  Tyrol  hunter, — an  angel 
in  the  guise  of  a  hunter,  as  the  chronicles  of  the  time 
prefer  to  say. 

The  Martinswand  is  a  grand  mountain,  being  one  of 
the  spurs  of  the  greater  Sonnstein,  and  rises  precipi- 
tously, looming,  massive  and  lofty,  like  a  very  fortress 
for  giants,  where  it  stands  right  across  that  road  which, 
if  you  follow  it  long  enough,  takes  you  through  Zell  to 
Landeck,  —  old,  picturesque,  poetic  Landeck,  where 
Frederick  of  the  Empty  Pockets  rhymed  his  sorrows 
in  ballads  to  his  people, — and  so  on  by  Bludenz  into 
Switzerland  itself,  by  as  noble  a  highway  as  any  trav- 
eller can  ever  desire  to  traverse  on  a  summer's  day.  It 
is  within  a  mile  of  the  little  burg  of  Zell,  where  the 
people,  in  the  time  of  their  emperor's  peril,  came  out 
with  torches  and  bells,  and  the  Host  lifted  up  by  their 
priest,  and  all  prayed  on  their  knees  underneath  the 


FINDELKIND.  I99 

steep  gaunt  pile  of  limestone,  that  is  the  same  to-day  as 
it  was  then  whilst  Kaiser  Max  is  dust ;  it  soars  up  on 
one  side  of  this  road,  very  steep  and  very  majestic, 
having  bare  stone  at  its  base,  and  being  all  along  its 
summit  crowned  with  pine  woods;  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road  are  a  little  stone  church,  quaint  and 
low,  and  gray  with  age,  and  a  stone  farm-house,  and 
cattle-sheds,  and  timber-sheds,  all  of  wood  that  is  darkly 
brown  from  time;  and  beyond  these  are  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  meadows  in  the  world,  full  of  tall  grass 
and  countless  flowers,  with  pools  and  little  estuaries 
made  by  the  brimming  Inn  River  that  flows  by  them ; 
and  beyond  the  river  are  the  glaciers  of  the  Sonustein 
and  the  Selrain  and  the  wild  Arlberg  region,  and  the 
golden  glow  of  sunset  in  the  west,  most  often  seen  from 
here  through  the  veil  of  falling  rain. 

At  this  farm-house,  with  Martinswand  towering 
above  it,  and  Zell  a  mile  beyond,  there  lived,  and  lives 
still,  a  little  boy  who  bears  the  old  historical  name  of 
Findelkind,  whose  father.  Otto  Korner,  is  the  last  of  a 
sturdy  race  of  yeomen,  who  had  fought  with  Hofer  and 
Haspinger,  and  had  been  free  men  always. 

Findelkind  came  in  the  middle  of  seven  other  chil- 
dren, and  was  a  pretty  boy  of  nine  years,  with  slenderer 
limbs  and  paler  cheeks  than  his  rosy  brethren,  and 
tender  dreamy  eyes  that  had  the  look,  his  mother  told 
him,  of  seeking  stars  in  mid-day :  de  chercher  midi  d, 
quatorze  heures,  as  the  French  have  it.  He  was  a  good 
little  lad,  and  seldom  gave  any  trouble  from  disobedi- 
ence, though  he  often  gave  it  from  forgetful ness.  His 
father  angrily  complained  that  he  was  always  in  the 
clouds, — that  is,  he  was  always  dreaming,  and  so  very 


200  FINDELKIND. 

often  would  spill  the  milk  out  of  the  pails,  chop  his 
own  fingers  instead  of  the  wood,  and  stay  watching  the 
swallows  when  he  was  sent  to  draw  water.  His  brothers 
and  sisters  were  always  making  fun  of  him  :  they  were 
sturdier,  ruddier,  and  merrier  children  than  he  was, 
loved  romping  and  climbing  and  nutting,  thrashing 
the  walnut-trees  and  sliding  down  snow-drifts,  and 
got  into  mischief  of  a  more  common  and  childish  sort 
than  Findelkind's  freaks  of  fancy.  For  indeed  he 
was  a  very  fanciful  little  boy  :  everything  around  had 
tongues  for  him ;  and  he  would  sit  for  hours  among 
the  long  rushes  on  the  river's  edge,  trying  to  imagine 
what  the  wild  green-gray  water  had  found  in  its  wan- 
derings, and  asking  the  water-rats  and  the  ducks  to 
tell  him  about  it ;  but  both  rats  and  ducks  were  too 
busy  to  attend  to  an  idle  little  boy,  and  never  spoke : 
which  vexed  him. 

Findelkind,  however,  was  very  fond  of  his  books : 
he  would  study  day  and  night,  in  his  little  ignorant, 
primitive  fashion.  He  loved  his  missal  and  his  primer, 
and  could  spell  them  both  out  very  fairly,  and  was 
learning  to  write  of  a  good  priest  in  Zirl,  where  he 
trotted  three  times  a  week  with  his  two  little  brothers. 
When  not  at  school,  he  was  chiefly  set  to  guard  the 
sheep  and  the  cows,  which  occupation  left  him  very 
much  to  himself;  so  that  he  had  many  hours  in  the 
summer-time  to  stare  up  to  the  skies  and  wonder — 
wonder — wonder  about  all  sorts  of  things;  while  in 
the  winter — the  loug,  white,  silent  winter,  when  the 
post-wagons  ceased  to  run,  and  the  road  into  Switzer- 
land was  blocked,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  asleep, 
except  for  the  roaring  of  the  winds — Findelkind,  who 


FINDELKIND.  201 

Btill  trotted  over  the  snow  to  school  in  Zirl,  would 
dream  still,  sitting  on  the  wooden  settle  by  the  fire, 
when  he  came  home  again  under  Martinswand.  For 
the  worst — or  the  best — of  it  all  was  that  he  was  Fin- 
delkind. 

This  is  what  was  always  haunting  him.  He  was 
Findelkind ;  and  to  bear  this  name  seemed  to  him  to 
mark  him  out  from  all  other  children  and  to  dedicate 
him  to  heaven.  One  day  three  years  before,  when  he 
had  been  only  six  years  old,  the  priest  in  Zirl,  who  was 
a  very  kindly  and  cheerful  man,  and  amused  the  chil- 
dren as  much  as  he  taught  them,  had  not  allowed 
Findelkind  to  leave  school  to  go  home,  because  the 
storm  of  snow  and  wind  was  so  violent,  but  had  kept 
him  until  the  worst  should  pass,  with  one  or  two  other 
little  lads  who  lived  some  way  off,  and  had  let  the  boys 
roast  a  meal  of  apples  and  chestnuts  by  the  stove  in 
his  little  room,  and,  while  the  wind  howled  and  the 
blinding  snow  fell  without,  had  told  the  children  the 
story  of  another  Findelkind, — an  earlier  Findelkind, 
who  had  lived  in  the  flesh  on  Arlberg  as  far  back  as 
1381,  and  had  been  a  little  shepherd-lad,  "just  like 
you,"  said  the  good  man,  looking  at  the  little  boys 
munching  their  roast  crabs,  and  whose  country  had 
been  over  there,  above  Stuben,  where  Danube  and 
Rhine  meet  and  part. 

The  pass  of  Arlberg  is  even  still  so  bleak  and  bitter 
that  few  care  to  climb  there;  the  mountains  around  are 
drear  and  barren,  and  snow  lies  till  midsummer,  and 
even  longer  sometimes.  "  But  in  the  early  ages,"  said 
the  priest  (and  this  is  quite  a  true  tale  that  the  children 
heard  with  open  eyes,  and  mouths  only  not  open  be- 


202  FINDELKIND. 

cause  they  were  full  of  crabs  and  chestnuts),  "  in  the 
early  ages/'  said  the  priest  to  them,  "  the  Arlberg  was 
far  more  dreary  than  it  is  now.  There  was  only  a 
mule-track  over  it,  and  no  refuge  for  man  or  beast; 
so  that  wanderers  and  peddlers,  and  those  whose  need 
for  work  or  desire  for  battle  brought  them  over  that 
frightful  pass,  perished  in  great  numbers,  and  were 
eaten  by  the  bears  and  the  wolves.  The  little  shep- 
herd-boy Findelkind — who  was  a  little  boy  five  hun- 
dred years  ago,  remember,"  the  priest  repeated, — "  was 
sorely  disturbed  and  distressed  to  see  these  poor  dead 
souls  in  the  snow  winter  after  winter,  and  seeing  the 
blanched  bones  lie  on  the  bare  earth,  unburied,  when 
summer  melted  the  snow.  It  made  him  unhappy,  very 
unhappy ;  and  what  could  he  do,  he  a  little  boy  keep- 
ing sheep  ?  He  had  as  his  wages  two  florins  a  year ; 
that  was  all;  but  his  heart  rose  high,  and  he  had 
faith  in  God.  Little  as  he  was,  he  said  to  himself,  he 
would  try  and  do  something,  so  that  year  after  year 
those  poor  lost  travellers  and  beasts  should  not  pei'ish 
so.  He  said  nothing  to  anybody,  but  he  took  the 
few  florins  he  had  saved  up,  bade  his  master  farewell, 
and  went  on  his  way  begging, — a  little  fourteenth-cen- 
tury boy,  with  long,  straight  hair,  and  a  girdled  tunic, 
as  you  see  them,"  continued  the  priest,  "  in  the  min- 
iatures in  the  black-letter  missal  that  lies  upon  my 
desk.  No  doubt  heaven  favored  him  very  strongly, 
and  the  saints  watched  over  him;  still,  without  the 
boldness  of  his  own  courage  and  the  faith  in  his  own 
heart  they  would  not  have  done  so.  I  suppose,  too, 
that  when  knights  in  their  armor,  and  soldiers  in  their 
cami)s,  saw  such  a  little  fell  )W  all  alone,  they  helped 


FINDELKIND.  203 

him,  and  perba[)S  struck  some  blows  for  him,  and  so 
sped  him  on  his  way,  and  protected  him  from  robbers 
and  from  wild  beasts.  Still,  be  sure  that  the  real 
shield  and  the  real  reward  that  served  Findelkind  of 
Arlberg  was  the  pure  and  noble  purpose  that  armed 
him  night  and  day.  Now,  history  does  not  tell  us 
where  Findelkind  went,  nor  how  he  fared,  nor  how 
long  he  was  about  it;  but  history  does  tell  us  that  the 
little  barefooted,  long-haired  boy,  knocking  so  loudly 
at  castle  gates  and  city  walls  in  the  name  of  Christ  and 
Christ's  poor  brethren,  did  so  well  succeed  in  his  quest 
that  before  long  he  had  returned  to  his  mountain- 
home  with  means  to  have  a  church  and  a  rude  dwell- 
ing built,  where  he  lived  with  six  other  brave  and 
charitable  souls,  dedicating  themselves  to  St.  Christo- 
pher, and  going  out  night  and  day  to  the  sound  of  the 
Angelus,  seeking  the  lost  and  weary.  This  is  really 
what  Findelkind  of  Arlberg  did  five  centuries  ago,  and 
did  so  quickly  that  his  fraternity  of  St.  Christopher 
twenty  years  after  numbered  among  its  members  arch- 
dukes, and  prelates,  and  knights  without  number,  and 
lasted  as  a  great  order  down  to  the  days  of  Joseph  II. 
This  is  what  Findelkind  in  the  fourteenth  century  did, 
I  tell  you.  Bear  like  faith  in  your  hearts,  my  chil- 
dren ;  and  though  your  generation  is  a  harder  one  than 
this,  because  it  is  without  faith,  yet  you  shall  move 
mountains,  because  Christ  and  St.  Christopher  will  be 
with  you." 

Then  the  good  man,  having  said  that,  blessed  them, 
and  left  them  alone  to  their  chestnuts  and  crabs,  and 
went  into  his  own  oratory  to  prayer.  The  other  boys 
laughed  and  chattered ;  but  Findelkind  sat  very  quietly, 


204  FINDELKIND. 

thinking  of  his  namesake,  all  the  day  after,  and  for 
many  days  and  weeks  and  months  this  story  haunted 
him.  A  little  boy  had  done  all  that ;  and  this  little 
boy  had  been  called  Findelkind :  Findelkind,  just  like 
himself. 

It  was  beautiful,  and  yet  it  tortured  him.  If  the 
good  man  had  known  how  the  history  would  root  itself 
in  the  child's  mind,  perhaps  he  would  never  have  told 
it;  for  night  and  day  it  vexed  Findelkind,  and  yet 
seemed  beckoning  to  him  and  crying,  "  Go  thou  and  do 
likewise !" 

But  what  could  he  do  ? 

There  was  the  snow,  indeed,  and  there  were  the 
mountains,  as  in  the  fourteenth  century,  but  there  were 
no  travellers  lost.  The  diligence  did  not  go  into 
Switzerland  after  autumn,  and  the  country-people  who 
went  by  on  their  mules  and  in  their  sledges  to  Inn- 
spruck  knew  their  way  very  well,  and  were  never 
likely  to  be  adrift  on  a  winter's  night,  or  eaten  by  a 
wolf  or  a  bear. 

When  spring  came,  Findelkind  sat  by  the  edge  of 
the  bright  pure  water  among  the  flowering  grasses,  and 
felt  his  heart  heavy.  Findelkind  of  Arlberg  who  was 
in  heaven  now  must  look  down,  he  fancied,  and  think 
him  so  stupid  and  so  selfish,  sitting  there.  The  first 
Findelkind,  a  few  centuries  before,  had  trotted  down 
on  his  bare  feet  from  his  mountain-pass,  and  taken  his 
little  crook,  and  gone  out  boldly  over  all  the  land  on 
his  pilgrimage,  and  knocked  at  castle  gates  and  city 
walls  in  Christ's  name  and  for  love  of  the  poor !  That 
was  to  do  something  indeed  ! 

This  poor  little  living  Findelkind  would  look  at  the 


FINDELKIND.  205 

miniatures  in  the  priest's  missal,  in  one  of  which  there 
was  the  little  fourteenth-century  boy  with  long  hanging 
hair  and  a  wallet  and  bare  feet,  and  he  never  doubted 
that  it  was  the  portrait  of  the  blessed  Findelkind  who 
was  in  heaven ;  and  he  wondered  if  he  looked  like  a 
little  boy  there,  or  if  he  were  changed  to  the  likeness 
of  an  angel. 

"  He  was  a  boy  just  like  me,"  thought  the  poor  little 
fellow,  and  he  felt  so  ashamed  of  himself, — so  very 
ashamed ;  and  the  priest  had  told  him  to  try  and  do 
the  same.  He  brooded  over  it  so  much,  and  it  made 
him  so  anxious  and  so  vexed,  that  his  brothers  ate  his 
porridge  and  he  did  not  notice  it,  his  sisters  pulled  his 
curls  and  he  did  not  feel  it,  his  father  brought  a  stick 
down  on  his  back  and  he  only  started  and  stared,  and 
his  mother  cried  because  he  was  losing  his  mind  and 
would  grow  daft,  and  even  his  mother's  tears  he  scarcely 
saw.  He  was  always  thinking  of  Findelkind  in 
heaven. 

When  he  went  for  water,  he  spilt  one-half;  when  he 
did  his  lessons,  he  forgot  the  chief  part;  when  he  drove 
out  the  cow,  he  let  her  munch  the  cabbages ;  and  when 
he  was  set  to  watch  the  oven  he  let  the  loaves  burn,  like 
great  Alfred.  He  was  always  busied  thinking,  "  Little 
Findelkind  that  is  in  heaven  did  so  great  a  thing:  why 
may  not  I  ?  I  ought !  I  ought !"  What  was  the  use 
of  being  named  after  Findelkind  that  was  in  heaven, 
unless  one  did  something  great  too  ? 

Next  to  the  church  there  is  a  little  stone  lodge,  or 

shed,  with  two  arched  openings,  and  from  it  you  look 

into  the  tiny  church  with  its  crucifixes  and  relics,  or 

out  to  great,  bold,  sombre  Martinswand,  as  you  like 

18 


206  FINDELKIND. 

best ;  and  in  this  spot  Findelkind  would  sit  liour  aftei 
hour,  while  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  playing,  and 
look  up  at  the  mountains  or  on  to  the  altar,  and  wish 
and  pray  and  vex  his  little  soul  most  wofully ;  and  his 
ewes  and  his  lambs  would  crop  the  grass  about  the 
entrance,  and  bleat  to  make  him  notice  them  and  lead 
them  farther  afield,  but  all  in  vain.  Even  his  dear 
sheep  he  hardly  heeded,  and  his  pet  ewes,  Katte  and 
Greta,  and  the  big  ram  Zips,  rubbed  their  soft  noses 
in  his  hand  unnoticed.  So  the  summer  droned  away, 
— the  summer  that  is  so  short  in  the  mountains,  and 
yet  so  green  and  so  radiant,  with  the  torrents  tumbling 
through  the  flowers,  and  the  hay  tossing  in  the  meadows, 
and  the  lads  and  lasses  climbing  to  cut  the  rich  sweet 
grass  of  the  alps.  The  short  summer  passed  as  fast  as 
a  dragon-fly  flashes  by,  all  green  and  gold,  in  the  sun ; 
and  it  was  near  winter  once  more,  and  still  Findelkind 
was  always  dreaming  and  wondering  what  he  could  do 
for  the  good  of  St.  Christopher ;  and  the  longing  to  do 
it  all  came  more  and  more  into  his  little  heart,  and  he 
puzzled  his  brain  till  his  head  ached.  One  autumn 
morning,  whilst  yet  it  was  dark,  Findelkind  made  his 
mind  up,  and  rose  before  his  brothers,  and  stole  down- 
stairs and  out  into  the  air,  as  it  was  easy  to  do,  because 
the  house-door  never  was  bolted.  He  had  nothing  with 
him ;  he  was  barefooted,  and  his  school-satchel  was 
slung  behind  him,  as  Findelkind  of  Arlberg's  wallet 
had  been  five  centuries  before. 

He  took  a  little  stafi*  from  the  piles  of  wood  lying 
about,  and  went  out  on  to  tlie  high-road,  on  his  way  to 
do  heaven's  will.  He  was  not  very  sure  what  that 
divine  will  wished,  but  that  was  because  he  was  only 


EVEN    HIS    DEAR    SHEEP    HE     HARDLY    HEEDED. 


FINDELKIND.  207 

nine  years  old,  and  not  very  wise;  but  Findelkind 
that  was  in  heaven  had  begged  for  the  poor ;  so  would 
he. 

His  parents  were  very  poor,  but  he  did  not  think  of 
them  as  in  any  want  at  any  time,  because  he  always  had 
his  bowlful  of  porridge  and  as  much  bread  as  he  wanted 
to  eat.  This  morning  he  had  nothing  to  eat ;  he  wished 
to  be  away  before  any  one  could  question  him. 

It  was  quite  dusk  in  the  fresh  autumn  morning :  the 
sun  had  not  risen  behind  the  glaciers  of  the  Stubaithal, 
and  the  road  was  scarcely  seen ;  but  he  knew  it  very 
well,  and  he  set  out  bravely,  saying  his  prayers  to 
Christ,  and  to  St.  Christopher,  and  to  Findelkind  that 
was  in  heaven. 

He  was  not  in  any  way  clear  as  to  Avhat  he  would 
do,  but  he  thought  he  would  find  some  great  thing  to 
do  somewhere,  lying  like  a  jewel  in  the  dust;  and  he 
went  on  his  way  in  faith,  as  Findelkind  of  Arlberg 
had  done  before  him. 

His  heart  beat  high,  and  his  head  lost  its  aching  pains, 
and  his  feet  felt  light ;  so  light  as  if  there  were  wings 
to  his  ankles.  He  would  not  go  to  Zirl,  because  Zirl 
he  knew  so  well,  and  there  could  be  nothing  very  won- 
derful waiting  there ;  and  he  ran  fast  the  other  way. 
When  he  was  fairly  out  from  under  the  shadow  of 
Martinswand,  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  saw  the  sun 
come  on  his  path,  and  the  red  day  redden  the  gray- 
green  water,  and  the  early  Stellwagen  from  Landeck, 
that  had  been  lumbering  along  all  the  night,  overtook 
him. 

He  would  have  run  after  it,  and  called  out  to  the 
travellers  for  alms,  but  he  felt  ashamed :  his  father 


208  FINDELKIND. 

had  never  let  him  beg,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to 
begin. 

The  Stellwagen  rolled  on  through  the  autumn  mud, 
and  that  was  one  chance  lost.  He  was  sure  that  the 
first  Findelkind  had  not  felt  ashamed  when  he  had 
knocked  at  the  first  castle  gates. 

By  and  by,  when  he  could  not  see  Martinswand  by 
turning  his  head  back  ever  so,  he  came  to  an  inn  that 
used  to  be  a  post-house  in  the  old  days  when  men 
travelled  only  by  road.  A  woman  was  feeding  chickens 
in  the  bright  clear  red  of  the  cold  daybreak. 

Fiudelkind  timidly  held  out  his  hand.  "  For  the 
poor !"  he  murmured,  and  doffed  his  cap. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  Oh,  is  it 
you,  little  Findelkind  ?  Have  you  run  off  from  school? 
Be  off  with  you  home !  I  have  mouths  enough  to  feed 
here." 

Findelkind  went  away,  and  began  to  learn  that  it 
is  not  easy  to  be  a  prophet  or  a  hero  in  one's  own 
country. 

He  trotted  a  mile  farther,  and  met  nothing.  At  last 
he  came  to  some  cows  by  the  wayside,  and  a  man  tend- 
ing them. 

"Would  you  give  me  something  to  help  make  a 
monastery  ?"  he  said,  timidly,  and  once  more  took  off 
his  cap.  The  man  gave  a  great  laugh.  "  A  fine  monk, 
you !  And  who  wants  more  of  these  lazy  drones  ?  Not 
I." 

Findelkind  never  answered:  he  remembered  the 
priest  had  said  that  the  years  he  lived  in  were  very- 
hard  ones,  and  men  in  them  had  no  faith. 

Ere  long  he  came  to  a  big  walled  house,  with  turrets 


FINDELKIND.  209 

and  grated  casements, — very  big  it  looked  to  him, — 
like  one  of  the  first  Findelkind's  own  castles.  His 
heart  beat  loud  against  his  side,  but  he  plucked  up  his 
courage,  and  knocked  as  loud  as  his  heart  was  beating. 

He  knocked  and  knocked,  but  no  answer  came. 
The  house  was  empty.  But  he  did  not  know  that; 
he  thought  it  was  that  the  people  within  were  cruel, 
and  he  went  sadly  onward  with  the  road  winding  be- 
fore him,  and  on  his  right  the  beautiful  impetuous  gray 
river,  and  on  his  left  the  green  Mittelgebirge  and  the 
mountains  that  rose  behind  it.  By  this  time  the  day 
was  up ;  the  sun  was  glowing  on  the  red  of  the  cran- 
berry shrubs  and  the  blue  of  the  bilberry-boughs  :  he 
was  hungry  and  thirsty  and  tired.  But  he  did  not  give 
in  for  that ;  he  held  on  steadily ;  he  knew  that  there 
was  near,  somewhere  near,  a  great  city  that  the  people 
called  Sprugg,  and  thither  he  had  resolved  to  go.  By 
noontide  he  had  walked  eight  miles,  and  came  to  a 
green  place  where  men  were  shooting  at  targets,  the 
tall  thick  grass  all  around  them  :  and  a  little  way 
farther  off  was  a  train  of  people  chanting  and  bearing 
crosses  and  dressed  in  long  flowing  robes. 

The  place  was  the  Hottinger  Au,  and  the  day  was 
Saturday,  and  the  village  was  making  ready  to  perform 
a  miracle-play  on  the  morrow. 

Findelkind  ran  to  the  robed  singing-folk,  quite  sure 
that  he  saw  the  people  of  God.  "  Oh,  take  me,  take 
me  !"  he  cried  to  them ;  "  do  take  me  with  you  to  do 
heaven's  work." 

But  they  pushed  him  aside  for  a  crazy  little  boy  that 
spoiled  their  rehearsing. 

"  It  is  only  for  Hotting  folk,"  said  a  lad  older  than 
0  18* 


210  FINDELKIND. 

himself.  "Get  out  of  the  way  with  you,  lAebchen." 
And  the  man  who  carried  the  cross  knocked  him  with 
force  on  the  head,  by  mere  accident ;  but  Findelkind 
thought  he  had  meant  it. 

Were  people  so  much  kinder  five  centuries  before, 
he  wondered,  and  felt  sad  as  the  many-colored  robes 
swept  on  through  the  grass,  and  the  crack  of  the  rifles 
sounded  sharply  through  the  music  of  the  chanting 
voices.  He  went  on,  foot-sore  and  sorrowful,  thinking 
of  the  castle  doors  that  had  opened,  and  the  city  gates 
that  had  unclosed,  at  the  summons  of  the  little  long- 
haired boy  whose  figure  was  painted  on  the  missal. 

He  had  come  now  to  where  the  houses  were  much 
more  numerous,  though  under  the  shade  of  great  trees, 
— lovely  old  gray  houses,  some  of  wood,  some  of  stone, 
some  with  frescos  on  them  and  gold  and  color  and 
mottoes,  some  with  deep  barred  casements,  and  carved 
portals,  and  sculptured  figures ;  houses  of  the  poorer 
people  now,  but  still  memorials  of  a  grand  and  gracious 
time.  For  he  had  wandered  into  the  quarter  of  St. 
Nicholas  in  this  fair  mountain-city,  which  he,  like  his 
country-folk,  called  Sprugg,  though  the  government 
calls  it  Innspruck. 

He  got  out  upon  a  long  gray  wooden  bridge,  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  reaches  of  the  river,  and 
thought  to  himself,  maybe  this  was  not  Sprugg  but 
Jerusalem,  so  beautiful  it  looked  with  its  domes  shining 
golden  in  the  sun,  and  the  snow  of  the  Soldstein  and 
Branjoch  behind  them.  For  little  Findelkind  had 
never  come  so  far  as  this  before.  As  he  stood  on  the 
bridge  so  dreaming,  a  hand  clutched  him,  and  a  voice 
said, — 


FINDELKIND.  211 

"A  whole  kreutzer,  or  you  do  not  pass!" 

Findelkind  started  and  trembled. 

A  kreutzer !  he  had  never  owned  such  a  treasure  in 
all  his  life. 

"  I  have  no  money !"  he  murmured,  timidly,  "  I 
came  to  see  if  I  could  get  money  for  the  poor." 

The  keeper  of  the  bridge  laughed. 

"  You  are  a  little  beggar,  you  mean  ?  Oh,  very 
well !     Then  over  my  bridge  you  do  not  go." 

"  But  it  is  the  city  on  the  other  side  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is  the  city ;  but  over  nobody  goes 
without  a  kreutzer." 

"  I  never  have  such  a  thing  of  my  own !  never ! 
never !"  said  Findelkind,  ready  to  cry. 

"  Then  you  were  a  little  fool  to  come  away  from 
your  home,  wherever  that  may  be,"  said  the  man  at 
the  bridge-head.  "  Well,  I  will  let  you  go,  for  you 
look  a  baby.     But  do  not  beg ;  that  is  bad." 

"  Findelkind  did  it !" 

"  Then  Findelkind  was  a  rogue  and  a  vagabond," 
said  the  taker  of  tolls. 

"  Oh,  no— no— no  !" 

"  Oh,  yes — yes — ^yes,  little  sauce-box;  and  take  that," 
said  the  man,  giving  him  a  box  on  the  ear,  being  angry 
at  contradiction. 

Findelkind's  head  drooped,  and  he  went  slowly  over 
the  bridge,  forgetting  that  he  ought  to  have  thanked 
the  toll-taker  for  a  free  passage.  The  world  seemed 
to  hira  very  dijfficult.  How  had  Findelkind  done 
when  he  had  come  to  bridges  ? — and,  oh,  how  had 
Findelkind  done  when  he  had  been  hungry  ? 

For  this  poor  little  Findelkind  was  getting  very 


212  FINDELKIND. 

hungry,  and  his  stomach  was  as  empty  as  was  his 
wallet. 

A  few  steps  brought  him  to  the  Goldenes  Dachl. 
He  forgot  his  hunger  and  his  pain,  seeing  the  sun 
shine  on  all  that  gold,  and  the  curious  painted  galleries 
under  it.  He  thought  it  was  real  solid  gold.  Real 
gold  laid  out  on  a  house-roof, — and  the  people  all  so 
poor!  Findelkind  began  to  muse,  and  wonder  why 
everybody  did  not  climb  up  there  and  take  a  tile  off 
and  be  rich?  But  perhaps  it  would  be  wicked. 
Perhaps  God  put  the  roof  there  with  all  that  gold  to 
prove  people.     Findelkind  got  bewildered. 

If  God  did  such  a  thing,  was  it  kind? 

His  head  seemed  to  swim,  and  the  sunshine  went 
round  and  round  with  him.  There  went  by  him,  just 
then,  a  very  venerable-looking  old  man  with  silver 
hair :  he  was  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak.  Findelkind 
pulled  at  the  coat  gently,  and  the  old  man  looked  down. 

"  What  is  it,  my  boy  ?"  he  asked. 

Findelkind  answered,  "  I  came  out  to  get  gold :  may 
I  take  it  off  that  roof?" 

"  It  is  not  gold,  child,  it  is  gilding." 

"What  is  gilding?" 

"  It  is  a  thing  made  to  look  like  gold  :  that  is  all." 

"  It  is  a  lie,  then  !" 

The  old  man  smiled.  "  Well,  nobody  thinks  so. 
If  you  like  to  put  it  so,  perhaps  it  is.  What  do  you 
want  gold  for,  you  wee  thing?" 

"  To  build  a  monastery  and  house  the  poor." 

The  old  man's  face  scowled  and  grew  dark,  for  he 
was  a  Lutheran  pastor  from  Bavaria. 

"  Who  taught  you  such  trash  ?"  he  said,  crossly. 


FINDELKIND.  213 

"  It  is  not  trash.     It  is  faith." 

And  Findelkind's  face  began  to  burn  and  his  blue 
eyes  to  darken  and  moisten.  There  was  a  little  crowd 
beginning  to  gather,  and  the  crowd  was  beginning  to 
laugh.  There  were  many  soldiers  and  rifle-shooters  in 
the  throng,  and  they  jeered  and  joked,  and  made  fun 
of  the  old  man  in  the  long  cloak,  who  grew  angry  then 
with  the  child.  "  You  are  a  little  idolater  and  a  little: 
impudent  sinner !"  he  said,  wrathfully,  and  shook  the 
boy  by  the  shoulder,  and  went  away,  and  the  throng 
that  had  gathered  round  had  only  poor  Findelkind  left 
to  tease. 

He  was  a  very  poor  little  boy  indeed  to  look  at,  with 
his  sheepskin  tunic,  and  his  bare  feet  and  legs,  and  his 
wallet  that  never  was  to  get  filled. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from,  and  what  do  you 
want?"  they  asked;  and  he  answered,  with  a  sob  in 
his  voice, — 

"  I  want  to  do  like  Findelkind  of  Arlberg." 

And  then  the  crowd  laughed,  not  knowing  at  all 
what  he  meant,  but  laughing  just  because  they  did  not 
know :  as  crowds  always  will  do.  And  only  the  big 
dogs  that  are  so  very  big  in  this  country,  and  are  all 
loose,  and  free,  and  good-natured  citizens,  came  up  to 
him  kindly,  and  rubbed  against  him,  and  made  friends ; 
and  at  that  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his  courage 
rose,  and  he  lifted  his  head. 

"You  are  cruel  people  to  laugh,"  he  said,  indig- 
nantly :  "  the  dogs  are  kinder.  People  did  not  laugh 
at  Findelkind.  He  was  a  little  boy  just  like  me,  no 
better  and  no  bigger,  and  as  poor;  and  yet  he  had  so 
much  faith,  and  the  world  then  was  so  good,  that  he 


214  FINDELKIND. 

left  his  sheep  and  got  money  enough  to  build  a  church 
and  a  hospice  to  Christ  and  St.  Christopher.  And  I 
want  to  do  the  same  for  the  poor.  Not  for  myself,  no ; 
for  the  poor !  I  am  Fiadelkind  too,  and  Findelkind 
of  Arlberg  that  is  in  heaven  speaks  to  me." 

Then  he  stojjped,  and  a  sob  rose  again  in  his  throat. 

"  He  is  crazy  !"  said  the  people,  laughing,  yet  a  little 
scared ;  for  the  priest  at  Zirl  had  said  rightly,  this  is 
not  an  age  of  faith.  At  that  moment  there  sounded, 
coming  from  the  barracks,  that  used  to  be  the  Schloss 
in  the  old  days  of  Kaiser  Max  and  Mary  of  Burgundy, 
the  sound  of  drums  and  trumpets  and  the  tramp  of 
marching  feet.  It  was  one  of  the  corps  of  Jagers  of 
Tyrol,  going  down  from  the  avenue  to  the  Rudolfplatz, 
with  their  band  before  them  and  their  pennons  stream- 
ing. It  was  a  familiar  sight,  but  it  drew  the  street- 
throngs  to  it  like  magic :  the  age  is  not  fond  of  dream- 
ers, but  it  is  very  fond  of  drums.  In  almost  a  moment 
the  old  dark  arcades  and  the  river-side  and  the  passages 
near  were  all  empty,  except  for  the  women  sitting  at 
their  stalls  of  fruit  or  cakes,  or  toys.  They  are  won- 
derful old  arched  arcades,  like  the  cloisters  of  a  cathe- 
dral more  than  anything  else,  and  the  shops  under  them 
are  all  homely  and  simple, — shops  of  leather,  of  furs, 
of  clothes,  of  wooden  playthings,  of  sweet  and  whole- 
some bread.  They  are  very  quaint,  and  kept  by  poor 
folks  for  poor  folks  ;  but  to  the  dazed  eyes  of  Findel- 
kind they  looked  like  a  forbidden  paradise,  for  he  was 
so  hungry  and  so  heart-broken,  and  he  had  never  seen 
any  bigger  place  than  little  Zirl. 

He  stood  and  looked  wistfully,  but  no  one  offered 
him  anything.     Close  by  was  a  stall  of  splendid  purple 


FINDELKIND.  215 

grapes,  but  the  old  woman  that  kept  it  was  busy  knit- 
ting.    She  only  called  to  him  to  stand  out  of  her  light. 

"  You  look  a  poor  brat :  have  you  a  home  ?"  said 
another  woman,  who  sold  bridles  and  whips  and  horses' 
bells,  and  the  like. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  home, — by  Martinswand,"  said 
Findelkind,  with  a  sigh. 

The  woman  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  Your  parents 
have  sent  you  on  an  errand  here  ?" 

"  No ;  I  have  run  away." 

"  Run  away  ?  Oh,  you  bad  boy  ! — unless,  indeed, — 
are  they  cruel  to  you  ?" 

"  No ;  very  good." 

"  Are  you  a  little  rogue,  then,  or  a  thief?" 

"  You  are  a  bad  woman  to  think  such  things,"  said 
Findelkind,  hotly,  knowing  himself  on  how  innocent 
and  sacred  a  quest  he  was. 

"  Bad  ?  I  ?  Oh  ho !"  said  the  old  dame,  cracking 
one  of  her  new  whips  in  the  air,  "  I  should  like  to  make 
you  jump  about  with  this,  you  thankless  little  vaga- 
bond.    Be  off!" 

Findelkind  sighed  again,  his  momentary  anger  pass- 
ing ;  for  he  had  been  born  with  a  gentle  temper,  and 
thought  himself  to  blame  much  more  readily  than  he 
thought  other  people  were, — as,  indeed,  every  wise 
child  does,  only  there  are  so  few  children— or  men — 
that  are  wise. 

He  turned  his  head  away  from  the  temptation  of  the 
bread  and  fruit-stalls,  for  in  truth  hunger  gnawed  him 
terribly,  and  wandered  a  little  to  the  left.  From  where 
he  stood  he  could  see  the  long,  beautiful  street  of  Teresa, 
with  its  oriels  and  arches,  painted  windows  and  gilded 


216  FINDELKIND. 

fiigns,  and  the  steep,  gray,  dark  mountains  closing  it  in 
at  the  distance ;  but  the  street  frightened  liim,  it  looked 
so  grand,  and  he  knew  it  would  tempt  him  :  so  he  went 
where  he  saw  the  green  tops  of  some  high  elms  and 
beeches.  The  trees,  like  the  dogs,  seemed  like  friends. 
It  was  the  human  creatures  that  were  cruel. 

At  that  moment  there  came  out  of  the  barrack  gates, 
with  great  noise  of  trumpets  and  trampling  of  horses,  a 
group  of  riders  in  gorgeous  uniforms,  with  sabres  and 
chains  glancing  and  plumes  tossing.  It  looked  to  Fin- 
delkind  like  a  group  of  knights, — those  knights  who 
had  helped  and  defended  his  namesake  with  their  steel 
and  their  gold  in  the  old  days  of  the  Arlberg  quest. 
His  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  he  jumped  on  the  dust 
for  joy,  and  he  ran  forward  and  fell  on  his  knees  and 
waved  his  cap  like  a  little  mad  thing,  and  cried  out, — 

"  Oh,  dear  knights !  oh,  great  soldiers !  help  me ! 
Fight  for  me,  for  the  love  of  the  saints !  I  have  come 
all  the  way  from  Martinswand,  and  I  am  Findelkind, 
and  I  am  trying  to  serve  St.  Christopher  like  Findel- 
kind of  Arlberg." 

But  his  little  swaying  body  and  pleading  hands  and 
shouting  voice  and  blowing  curls  frightened  the  horses : 
one  of  them  swerved  and  very  nearly  settled  the  woes 
of  Findelkind  forever  and  aye  by  a  kick.  The  soldier 
who  rode  the  horse  reined  him  in  with  difficulty :  he 
was  at  the  head  of  the  little  staff,  being  indeed  no  less 
or  more  than  the  general  commanding  the  garrison, 
which  in  this  city  is  some  fifteen  thousand  strong.  An 
orderly  sprang  from  his  saddle  and  seized  the  child, 
and  shook  him,  and  swore  at  him.  Findelkind  was 
frightened ;  but  he  shut  his  eyes  and  set  his  teetli,  and 


FINDELKIND.  217 

said  to  himself  that  tlie  martyrs  must  have  had  very 
much  worse  than  these  things  to  suffer  in  their  pilgrim- 
age. He  had  fancied  these  riders  were  knights, — such 
knights  as  the  priest  had  shown  him  the  likeness  of  in 
old  picture-books,  whose  mission  it  had  been  to  ride 
through  the  world  succoring  the  weak  and  weary,  and 
always  defending  the  right. 

"  What  are  your  swords  for,  if  you  are  not  knights?" 
he  cried,  desperately  struggling  in  his  captor's  grip, 
and  seeing  through  his  half-closed  lids  the  sunshine 
shining  on  steel  scabbards. 

"  What  does  he  want  ?"  asked  the  officer  in  com- 
mand of  the  garrison,  whose  staff  all  this  bright  and 
martial  array  was.  He  was  riding  out  from  the  bar- 
racks to  an  inspection  on  the  Rudolfplatz.  He  was  a 
young  man,  and  had  little  children  himself,  and  was 
half  amused,  half  touched,  to  see  the  tiny  figure  of  the 
little  dusty  boy. 

"  I  want  to  build  a  monastery,  like  Findelkind  of 
Arlberg,  and  to  help  the  poor,"  said  our  Findelkind, 
valorously,  though  his  heart  was  beating  like  that  of 
a  little  mouse  caught  in  a  trap ;  for  the  horses  were 
trampling  up  the  dust  around  him,  and  the  orderly's 
grip  was  hard. 

The  officers  laughed  aloud ;  and  indeed  he  looked  a 
poor  little  scrap  of  a  figure,  very  ill  able  to  help  even 
himself. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh?"  cried  Findelkind,  losing  his 
terror  in  his  indignation,  and  inspired  with  the  courage 
which  a  great  earnestness  always  gives.  "  You  should 
not  laugh.  If  you  were  true  knights,  you  would  not 
laugh  :  you  would  fight  for  me.  I  am  little,  I  know, 
K  19 


218  FINDELKIND. 

— I  am  very  little, — but  he  was  no  bigger  than  I; 
and  see  what  great  things  he  did.  But  the  soldiers 
were  good  in  those  days ;  they  did  not  laugh  and  use 
bad  words " 

And  Findelkind,  on  whose  shoulder  the  orderly's 
hold  was  still  fast,  faced  the  horses,  which  looked  to 
him  as  huge  as  Martinswand,  and  the  swords,  which 
he  little  doubted  were  to  be  sheathed  in  his  heart. 

The  officers  stared,  laughed  again,  then  whispered 
together,  and  Findelkind  heard  them  say  the  word 
"crazed."  Findelkind,  whose  quick  little  ears  were 
both  strained  like  a  mountain  leveret's,  understood 
that  the  great  men  were  saying  among  themselves 
that  it  was  not  safe  for  him  to  be  about  alone,  and 
that  it  would  be  kinder  to  him  to  catch  and  cage 
him, — the  general  view  with  which  the  world  regards 
enthusiasts. 

He  heard,  he  understood;  he  knew  that  they  did 
not  mean  to  help  him,  these  men  with  the  steel  weapons 
and  the  huge  steeds,  but  that  they  meant  to  shut  him 
up  in  a  prison;  he,  little  free-born,  forest-fed  Findel- 
kind. He  wrenched  himself  out  of  the  soldier's  grip, 
as  the  rabbit  wrenches  itself  out  of  the  jaws  of  the 
trap  even  at  the  cost  of  leaving  a  limb  behind,  shot 
between  the  horses'  legs,  doubled  like  a  hunted  thing, 
and  spied  a  refuge.  Opposite  the  avenue  of  gigantic 
poplars  and  pleasant  stretches  of  grass  shaded  by  other 
bigger  trees,  there  stands  a  very  famous  churcli,  famous 
alike  in  the  annals  of  history  and  of  art, — the  church 
of  the  Franciscans,  that  holds  the  tomb  of  Kaiser 
Max,  though,  alas !  it  holds  not  his  ashes,  as  his  dying 
desire  was  that  it  should.     The  church  stands  here,  a 


FINDELKIND.  219 

noble,  sombre  place,  with  the  Silver  Chapel  of  Philip- 
piua  Wessler  adjoining  it,  and  in  front  the  fresh  cool 
avenues  that  lead  to  the  river  and  the  broad  water- 
meadows  and  the  grand  Hall  road  bordered  with  the 
painted  stations  of  the  Cross. 

There  were  some  peasants  coming  in  from  the 
country  driving  cows,  and  some  burghers  in  their 
carts,  with  fat,  slow  horses ;  some  little  children  were 
at  play  under  the  poplars  and  the  elms;  great  dogs 
were  lying  about  on  the  grass ;  everything  was  happy 
and  at  peace,  except  the  poor  throbbing  heart  of  little 
Findelkind,  who  thought  the  soldiers  were  coming 
after  him  to  lock  him  up  as  mad,  and  ran  and  ran  as 
fast  as  his  trembling  legs  would  carry  him,  making 
for  sanctuary,  as,  in  the  old  bygone  days  that  he  loved, 
many  a  soul  less  innocent  than  his  had  done.  The 
wide  doors  of  the  Hof  kirche  stood  open,  and  on  the 
steps  lay  a  black-and-tan  hound,  watching  no  doubt 
for  its  master  or  mistress,  who  had  gone  within  to 
pray.  Findelkind,  in  his  terror,  vaulted  over  the  dog, 
and  into  the  church  tumbled  headlong. 

It  seemed  quite  dark,  after  the  brilliant  sunshine 
on  the  river  and  the  grass ;  his  forehead  touched  the 
stone  floor  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  raised  himself  and 
stumbled  forward,  reverent  and  bareheaded,  looking 
for  the  altar  to  cling  to  when  the  soldiers  should  enter 
to  seize  him,  his  uplifted  eyes  fell  on  the  great  Tomb. 

The  tomb  seems  entirely  to  fill  the  church,  as,  with 
its  twenty-four  guardian  figures  round  it,  it  towers  up 
in  the  twilight  that  reigns  here  even  at  mid-day. 
There  are  a  stern  majesty  and  grandeur  in  it  which 
dwarf  every  other  monument  and  mausoleum.     It  is 


220  FINDELKIND. 

grim,  it  is  rude,  it  is  savage,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
rough  ages  that  created  it;  but  it  is  great  with  their 
greatness,  it  is  heroic  with  their  heroism,  it  is  simple 
with  their  simplicity. 

As  the  awe-stricken  eyes  of  the  terrified  child  fell 
on  the  mass  of  stone  and  bronze,  the  sight  smote  him 
breathless.  The  mailed  warriors  standing  around  it, 
so  motionless,  so  solemn,  filled  him  with  a  frozen 
nameless  fear.  He  had  never  a  doubt  that  they  were 
the  dead  arisen.  The  foremost  that  met  his  eyes  were 
Theodoric  and  Arthur ;  the  next,  grim  Eudolf,  father 
of  a  dynasty  of  emperors.  There,  leaning  on  their 
swords,  the  three  gazed  down  on  him,  armored, 
armed,  majestic,  serious,  guarding  the  empty  grave, 
which  to  the  child,  who  knew  nothing  of  its  history, 
seemed  a  bier;  and  at  the  feet  of  Theodoric,  who 
alone  of  them  all  looked  young  and  merciful,  poor 
little  desperate  Findelkind  fell  with  a  piteous  sob,  and 
cried,  "  I  am  not  mad !  Indeed,  indeed,  I  am  not 
mad !" 

He  did  not  know  that  these  grand  figures  were  but 
statues  of  bronze.  He  was  quite  sure  they  were  the 
dead,  arisen,  and  meeting  there,  around  that  tomb  on 
which  the  solitary  kneeling  knight  watched  and  prayed, 
encircled,  as  by  a  wall  of  steel,  by  these  his  comrades. 
He  was  not  frightened,  he  was  rather  comforted  and 
stilled,  as  with  a  sudden  sense  of  some  deep  calm  and 
certain  help. 

Findelkind,  without  knowing  that  he  was  like  so 
many  dissatisfied  poets  and  artists  much  bigger  than 
himself,  dimly  felt  in  his  little  tired  mind  how  beauti- 
ful and  how  gorgeous  and  how  grand  the  world  must 


FINDELEIND.  221 

have  been  when  heroes  and  knights  like  these  had 
gone  by  in  its  daily  sunshine  and  its  twilight  storms. 
No  wonder  Findelkind  of  Arlberg  had  found  his  pil- 
grimage so  fair,  when  if  he  had  needed  any  help  he 
liad  only  had  to  kneel  and  clasp  these  firm,  mailed 
limbs,  these  strong  cross-hilted  swords,  in  the  name  of 
Christ  and  of  the  poor. 

Theodoric  seemed  to  look  down  on  him  with  benig- 
nant eyes  from  under  the  raised  visor ;  and  our  poor 
Findelkind,  weeping,  threw  his  small  arms  closer  and 
closer  round  the  bronze  knees  of  the  heroic  figure, 
and  sobbed  aloud,  "  Help  me,  help  me !  Oh,  turn 
the  hearts  of  the  people  to  me,  and  help  me  to  do 
good!" 

But  Theodoric  answered  nothing. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  dark,  hushed  churcn , 
the  gloom  grew  darker  over  Findelkind's  eyes;  the 
mighty  forms  of  monarchs  and  of  heroes  grew  dim 
before  his  sight.  He  lost  consciousness,  and  fell  prone 
upon  the  stones  at  Theodoric's  feet ;  for  he  had  fainted 
from  hunger  and  emotion. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  quite  evening ;  there  was  a 
lantern  held  over  his  head ;  voices  were  muttering 
curiously  and  angrily;  bending  over  him  were  two 
priests,  a  sacristan  of  the  church,  and  his  own  father. 
His  little  wallet  lay  by  him  on  the  stones,  always 
empty. 

"Boy  of  mine!  were  you  mad?"  cried  his  father, 
half  in  rage,  half  in  tenderness.  "  The  chase  you  have 
led  me! — and  your  mother  thinking  you  were  drowned ! 
— and  all  the  working  day  lost,  running  after  old 
women's  tales  of  where  they  had  seen  you !  Oh,  little 
19* 


222  FINDELKIND. 

fool,  little  fool !  what  was  amiss  with  Martinswand,  that 
you  must  leave  it?" 

Findelkind  slowly  and  feebly  rose,  and  sat  up  on 
the  pavement,  and  looked  up,  not  at  his  father,  but  at 
the  knight  Theodoric. 

"  I  thought  they  would  help  me  to  keep  the  poor," 
he  muttered,  feebly,  as  he  glanced  at  his  own  wallet. 
"And  it  is  empty, — empty." 

"  Are  we  not  poor  enough  ?"  cried  his  father,  with 
natural  impatience,  ready  to  tear  his  hair  with  vex- 
ation at  having  such  a  little  idiot  for  a  son.  "  Must 
you  rove  afield  to  find  poverty  to  help,  when  it  sits 
cold  enough,  the  Lord  knows,  at  our  own  hearth?  Oh, 
little  ass,  little  dolt,  little  maniac,  fit  only  for  a  mad- 
house, talking  to  iron  figures  and  taking  them  for  real 
men !  What  have  I  done,  O  heaven,  that  I  should  be 
afflicted  thus?" 

And  the  poor  man  wept,  being  a  good  affectionate 
soul,  but  not  very  wise,  and  believing  that  his  boy  was 
mad.  Then,  seized  with  sudden  rage  once  more,  at 
thought  of  his  day  all  wasted,  and  its  hours  harassed 
and  miserable  through  searching  for  the  lost  child,  he 
plucked  up  the  light,  slight  figure  of  Findelkind  in 
his  own  arms,  and,  with  muttered  thanks  and  excuses 
to  the  sacristan  of  the  church,  bore  the  boy  out  with 
him  into  the  evening  air,  and  lifted  him  into  a  cart 
which  stood  there  with  a  horse  harnessed  to  one  side 
of  the  pole,  as  the  country-people  love  to  do,  to  the 
risk  of  their  own  lives  and  their  neighbors'.  Findel- 
kind said  never  a  word ;  he  was  as  dumb  as  Theodoric 
had  been  to  him;  he  felt  stupid,  heavy,  half  blind; 
his  father  pushed  him  some  bread,  and  he  ate  it  by 


FINDELKIND.  223 

sheer  instinct,  as  a  lost  animal  will  do ;  the  cart  jogged 
on,  the  stars  shone,  the  great  church  vanished  in  the 
gloom  of  night. 

As  they  went  through  the  city  towards  the  river- 
side along  the  homeward  way,  never  a  word  did  his 
father,  who  was  a  silent  man  at  all  times,  address  to 
him.  Only  once,  as  they  jogged  over  the  bridge,  he 
spoke. 

"Son,"  he  asked,  "did  you  run  away  truly  thinking 
to  please  God  and  help  the  poor  ?" 

"  Truly  I  did !"  answered  Findelkind,  with  a  sob  in 
his  throat. 

"  Then  thou  wert  an  ass !"  said  his  father.  "  Didst 
never  think  of  thy  mother's  love  and  of  my  toil?  Look 
at  home." 

Findelkind  was  mute.  The  drive  was  very  long, 
backward  by  the  same  way,  with  the  river  shining  in 
the  moonlight  and  the  mountains  half  covered  with 
the  clouds. 

It  was  ten  by  the  bells  of  Zirl  when  they  came  oncc 
more  under  the  solemn  shadow  of  grave  Martinswand. 
There  were  lights  moving  about  his  house,  his  brothers 
and  sisters  were  still  up,  his  mother  ran  out  into  the 
road,  weeping  and  laughing  with  fear  and  joy. 

Findelkind  himself  said  nothing. 

He  hung  his  head. 

They  were  too  fond  of  him  to  scold  him  or  to  jeer 
at  him ;  they  made  him  go  quickly  to  his  bed,  and  his 
mother  made  him  a  warm  milk  posset  and  kissed  him. 

"We  will  punish  thee  to-morrow,  naughty  and  cruel 
one,"  said  his  parent.  "But  thou  art  punished  enough 
already,  for  in  thy  place  little  Stefan  had  the  sheep, 


224  FINDELKIND. 

and  he  has  lost  Katte's  lambs, — the  beautiful  twin 
lambs!  I  dare  not  tell  thy  father  to-night.  Dost 
hear  the  poor  thing  mourn  ?  Do  not  go  afield  for  thy 
duty  again." 

A  pang  went  through  the  heart  of  Findelkind,  as 
if  a  knife  had  pierced  it.  He  loved  Katte  better  than 
almost  any  other  living  thing,  and  she  was  bleating 
under  his  window  childless  and  alone.  They  were 
such  beautiful  lambs,  too  ! — lambs  that  his  father  had 
2)romised  should  never  be  killed,  but  be  reared  to  swell 
the  flock. 

Findelkind  cowered  down  in  his  bed,  and  felt 
wretched  beyond  all  wretchedness.  He  had  been 
brought  back ;  his  wallet  was  empty ;  and  Katte's 
lambs  were  lost.     He  could  not  sleep. 

His  pulses  were  beating  like  so  many  steam-hammers ; 
he  felt  as  if  his  body  were  all  one  great  throbbing 
heart.  His  brothers,  who  lay  in  the  same  chamber 
with  him,  were  sound  asleep ;  very  soon  his  father  and 
mother  snored  also,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  Fin- 
delkind was  alone  wide  awake,  watching  the  big  white 
moon  sail  past  his  little  casement,  and  hearing  Katte 
bleat. 

Where  were  her  poor  twin  lambs  ? 

The  night  was  bitterly  cold,  for  it  was  already  far  on 
in  autumn;  the  rivers  had  swollen  and  flooded  many 
fields,  the  snow  for  the  last  week  had  fallen  quite  low 
down  on  the  mountain-sides. 

Even  if  still  living,  the  little  lambs  would  die,  out  on 
such  a  night  without  the  mother  or  food  and  shelter  of 
any  sort.  Findelkind,  whose  vivid  brain  always  saw 
everything  that  he  imagined  as  if  it  w^ere  being  acted 


FINDELKIND.  225 

before  his  eyes,  in  fancy  saw  his  two  dear  lambs  float- 
ing dead  down  the  swollen  tide,  entangled  in  rushes  on 
the  flooded  shore,  or  fallen  with  broken  limbs  upon  a 
crest  of  rocks.  He  saw  them  so  plainly  that  scarcely 
could  he  hold  back  his  breath  from  screaming  aloud  in 
the  still  night  and  answering  the  mourning  wail  of  the 
desolate  mother. 

At  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer :  his  head  burned, 
and  his  brain  seemed  whirling  round ;  at  a  bound  he 
leaped  out  of  bed  quite  noiselessly,  slid  into  his  sheep- 
skins, and  stole  out  as  he  had  done  the  night  before, 
hardly  knowing  what  he  did.  Poor  Katte  was  mourn- 
ing in  the  wooden  shed  with  the  other  sheep,  and  the 
wail  of  her  sorrow  sounded  sadly  across  the  loud  roar 
of  the  rushing  river. 

The  moon  was  still  high. 

Above,  against  the  sky,  black  and  awful  with  clouds 
floating  over  its  summit,  was  the  great  Martinswand. 

Findelkind  this  time  called  the  big  dog  Waldmar  to 
him,  and  with  the  dog  beside  him  went  once  more  out 
into  the  cold  and  the  gloom,  whilst  his  father  and 
mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters,  were  sleeping,  and 
poor  childless  Katte  alone  was  awake. 

He  looked  up  at  the  mountain  and  then  across  the 
water-swept  meadows  to  the  river.  He  was  in  doubt 
which  way  to  take.  Then  he  thought  that  in  all  like- 
lihood the  lambs  would  have  been  seen  if  they  had 
wandered  the  river  way,  and  even  little  Stefan  would 
have  had  too  much  sense  to  let  them  go  there.  So  he 
crossed  the  road  and  began  to  climb  Martinswand. 

With  the  instinct  of  the  born  mountaineer,  he  had 
brought  out  his  crampons  with  him,  and  had  now  fas- 
P 


226  FINDELKIND. 

tened  them  on  his  feet ;  he  knew  every  part  and  ridge 
of  the  mountains,  and  had  more  than  once  climbed 
over  to  that  very  spot  where  Kaiser  Max  had  Imng  in 
peril  of  his  life. 

On  second  thoughts  he  bade  Waldmar  go  back  to 
the  house.  The  dog  was  a  clever  mountaineer,  too, 
but  Findelkind  did  not  wish  to  lead  him  into  danger. 
"  I  have  done  the  wrong,  and  I  will  bear  the  brunt," 
he  said  to  himself;  for  he  felt  as  if  he  had  killed 
Katte's  children,  and  the  weight  of  the  sin  was  like  lead 
on  his  heart,  and  he  would  not  kill  good  Waldmar  too. 

His  little  lantern  did  not  show  much  light,  and  as 
he  went  higher  upwards  he  lost  sight  of  the  moon. 
The  cold  was  nothing  to  him,  because  the  clear  still  air 
was  that  in  which  he  had  been  reared ;  and  the  dark- 
ness he  did  not  mind,  because  he  was  used  to  that  also; 
but  the  weight  of  sorrow  upon  him  he  scarcely  knew 
how  to  bear,  and  how  to  find  two  tiny  lambs  in  this 
vast  waste  of  silence  and  shadow  would  have  pnzzled 
and  M^earied  older  minds  than  his.  Garibaldi  and  all 
his  household,  old  soldiers  tried  and  true,  sought  all 
night  once  upon  Caprera  in  such  a  quest,  in  vain. 

If  he  could  only  have  awakened  his  brother  Stefan 
to  ask  him  which  way  they  had  gone  !  but  then,  to  be 
sure,  he  remembered,  Stefan  must  have  told  that  to  all 
those  who  had  been  looking  for  the  lambs  from  sunset 
to  nightfall.     All  alone  he  began  the  ascent. 

Time  and  again,  in  the  glad  spring-time  and  the 
fresh  summer  weather,  he  had  driven  his  flock  upwards 
to  eat  the  grass  that  grew  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks  and 
on  the  broad  green  alps.  The  sheep  could  not  climb 
to  the  highest  points ;  but  the  goats  did,  and  he  with 


FINDELKIND.  227 

them.  Time  and  again  he  had  lain  on  his  back  in 
these  uppermost  heigiits,  with  the  lower  clouds  behind 
him  and  the  black  wings  of  the  birds  and  the  crows 
almost  touching  his  forehead,  as  he  lay  gazing  up  into 
the  blue  depth  of  the  sky,  and  dreaming,  dreaming, 
dreaming. 

He  would  never  dream  any  more  now,  he  thought 
to  himself.  His  dreams  had  cost  Katte  her  lambs, 
and  the  world  of  the  dead  Findelkind  was  gone  for- 
ever :  gone  were  all  the  heroes  and  knights ;  gone  ali 
the  faith  and  the  force ;  gone  every  one  who  cared  for 
the  dear  Christ  and  the  poor  in  pain. 

The  bells  of  Zirl  were  ringing  midnight.  Findel- 
kind heard,  and  wondered  that  only  two  hours  had 
gone  by  since  his  mother  had  kissed  him  in  his  bed. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  long  long  nights  had  rolled 
away,  and  he  had  lived  a  hundred  years. 

He  did  not  feel  any  fear  of  the  dark  calm  night, 
lit  now  and  then  by  silvery  gleams  of  moon  and  stars. 
The  mountain  was  his  old  familiar  friend,  and  the  ways 
of  it  had  no  more  terror  for  him  than  these  hills  here 
used  to  have  for  the  bold  heart  of  Kaiser  Max.  In- 
deed, all  he  thought  of  was  Katte, — Katte  and  the 
lambs.  He  knew  the  way  that  the  sheep-tracks  ran ; 
the  sheep  could  not  climb  so  high  as  the  goats  ;  and  he 
knew,  too,  that  little  Stefan  could  not  climb  so  high  as 
he.  So  he  began  his  search  low  down  upon  Martins- 
wand. 

After  midnight  the  cold  increased ;  there  were  snow- 
clouds  hanging  near,  and  they  opened  over  his  head, 
and  the  soft  snow  came  flying  along.  For  himself  he 
did  not  mind  it,  but  alas  for  the  lambs ! — if  it  covered 


228  FINDELKIND. 

them,  how  would  he  find  them  ?  And  if  they  slept  iu 
it  they  were  dead. 

It  was  bleak  and  bare  on  the  mountain-side,  though 
there  were  still  patches  of  grass  such  as  the  flocks  liked, 
that  had  grown  since  the  hay  was  cut.  The  frost  of 
the  night  made  the  stone  slippery,  and  even  the  irons 
gripped  it  with  difficulty ;  and  there  was  a  strong  wind 
rising  like  a  giant's  breath,  and  blowing  his  small  horn 
lantern  to  and  fro. 

Now  and  then  he  quaked  a  little  with  fear, — not  fear 
of  the  night  or  the  mountains,  but  of  strange  spirits  and 
dwarfs  and  goblins  of  ill  repute,  said  to  haunt  Martins- 
wand  after  nightfall.  Old  women  had  told  him  of 
such  things,  though  the  priest  always  said  that  they 
were  only  foolish  tales,  there  being  nothing  on  God's 
earth  wicked  save  men  and  women  who  had  not  clean 
hearts  and  hands.  Findelkind  believed  the  priest; 
still,  all  alone  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  with  the 
snow-flakes  flying  round  him,  he  felt  a  nervous  thrill 
that  made  him  tremble  and  almost  turn  backward. 
Almost,  but  not  quite ;  for  he  thought  of  Katte  and 
the  poor  little  lambs  lost — and  perhaps  dead — through 
his  fault. 

The  path  went  zigzag  and  was  very  steep;  the  Arolla 
pines  swayed  their  boughs  in  his  face ;  stones  that  lay 
in  his  path  unseen  in  the  gloom  made  him  stumble. 
Now  and  then  a  large  bird  of  the  night  flew  by  with  a 
rushing  sound  ;  the  air  grew  so  cold  that  all  Martins- 
wand  might  have  been  turning  to  one  huge  glacier. 
All  at  once  he  heard  through  the  stillness — for  there 
is  nothing  so  still  as  a  mountain-side  in  snow — a  little 
pitiful  bleat.     All  his  terrors  vanished ;  all  his  mem- 


FINDELKIND.  229 

ories  of  ghost-tales  passed  away ;  his  heart  gave  a  leap 
of  joy ;  he  was  sure  it  was  the  cry  of  the  lambs.  He 
stopped  to  listen  more  surely.  He  was  now  many 
score  of  feet  above  the  level  of  his  home  and  of  Zirl ; 
he  was,  as  nearly  as  he  could  judge,  half-way  as  high 
as  where  the  cross  in  the  cavern  marks  the  spot  of  the 
Kaiser's  peril.  The  little  bleat  sounded  above  him, 
and  it  was  very  feeble  and  faint. 

Findelkind  set  his  lantern  down,  braced  himself  up 
by  drawing  tighter  his  old  leathern  girdle,  set  his 
sheepskin  cap  firm  on  his  forehead,  and  went  towards 
the  sound  as  far  as  he  could  judge  that  it  might  be. 
He  was  out  of  the  woods  now ;  there  were  only  a  few 
straggling  pines  rooted  here  and  there  in  a  mass  of 
loose-lying  rock  and  slate ;  so  much  he  could  tell  by 
the  light  of  the  lantern,  and  the  lambs,  by  the  bleat- 
ing, seemed  still  above  him. 

It  does  not,  perhaps,  seem  very  hard  labor  to  hunt 
about  by  a  dusky  light  upon  a  desolate  mountain-side  ; 
but  when  the  snow  is  falling  fast, — when  the  light  is 
only  a  small  circle,  wavering,  yellowish  on  the  white, 
— when  around  is  a  wilderness  of  loose  stones  and 
yawning  clefts, — when  the  air  is  ice  and  the  hour  is 
past  midnight, — the  task  is  not  a  light  one  for  a  man ; 
and  Findelkind  was  a  child,  like  that  Findelkind  that 
was  in  heaven. 

Long,  very  long,  was  his  search  j  he  grew  hot  and 
forgot  all  fear,  except  a  spasm  of  terror  lest  his  light 
should  burn  low  and  die  out.  The  bleating  had  quite 
ceased  now,  and  there  was  not  even  a  sigh  to  guide 
him ;  but  he  knew  that  near  him  the  lambs  must  be, 
and  he  did  not  waver  or  despair. 
20 


230  FIIsDELKIND. 

He  did  not  pray ;  praying  in  the  morning  had  been 
no  use ;  but  he  trusted  in  God,  and  he  labored  hard, 
toiling  to  and  fro,  seeking  in  every  nook  and  behind 
each  stone,  and  straining  every  muscle  and  nerve,  till 
the  sweat  rolled  in  a  briny  dew  off  his  forehead,  and 
his  curls  dripped  with  wet.  At  last,  with  a  scream 
of  joy,  he  touched  some  soft  close  wool  that  gleamed 
white  as  the  white  snow.  He  knelt  down  on  the 
ground,  and  peered  behind  the  stone  by  the  full  light 
of  his  lantern ;  there  lay  the  little  lambs, — two  little 
brothers,  twin  brothers,  huddled  close  together,  asleep. 
Asleep  ?  He  was  sure  they  were  asleep,  for  they  were 
60  silent  and  still. 

He  bowed  over  them,  and  kissed  them,  and  laughed, 
and  cried,  and  kissed  them  again.  Then  a  sudden 
horror  smote  him ;  they  were  so  very  still.  There  they 
lay,  cuddled  close,  one  on  another,  one  little  white  head 
on  each  little  white  body, — drawn  closer  than  ever  to 
gether,  to  try  and  get  warm. 

He  called  to  them;  he  touched  them;  then  he  caught 
them  up  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  them  again,  and  again, 
and  again.  Alas  !  they  were  frozen  and  dead.  Never 
again  would  they  leap  in  the  long  green  grass,  and  frisk 
with  each  other,  and  lie  happy  by  Katte's  side ;  they 
had  died  calling  for  their  mother,  and  in  the  long, 
cold,  cruel  night,  only  death  had  answered. 

Findelkind  did  not  weep,  or  scream,  or  tremble ;  his 
heart  seemed  frozen,  like  the  dead  lambs. 

It  was  he  who  had  killed  them. 

He  rose  up  and  gathered  them  in  his  arms,  and  cud- 
dled them  in  the  skirts  of  his  sheepskin  tunic,  and  cast 
his  staff  away  that  he  might  carry  them,  and  so,  thus 


FINDELKIND.  231 

burdened  with  their  weight,  set  his  face  to  the  snow 
and  the  wind  once  more,  and  began  his  downward 
way. 

Once  a  great  sob  shook  him ;  that  was  all.  Now  he 
had  no  fear. 

The  night  might  have  been  noon-day,  the  snow- 
storm might  have  been  summer,  for  aught  that  he 
knew  or  cared. 

Long  and  weary  was  the  way,  and  often  he  stumbled 
and  had  to  rest ;  often  the  terrible  sleep  of  the  snow 
lay  heavy  on  his  eyelids,  and  he  longed  to  lie  down  and 
be  at  rest,  as  the  little  brothers  were ;  often  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  would  never  reach  home  again.  But  he 
shook  the  lethargy  off  him  and  resisted  the  longing,  and 
held  on  his  way:  he  knew  that  his  mother  would 
mourn  for  him  as  Katte  mourned  for  the  lambs.  At 
length,  through  all  difficulty  and  danger,  when  his 
light  had  spent  itself  and  his  strength  had  wellnigh 
spent  itself  too,  his  feet  touched  the  old  high-road. 
There  were  flickering  torches  and  many  people,  and 
loud  cries  around  the  church,  as  there  had  been  four 
hundred  years  before,  when  the  last  sacrament  had  been 
said  in  the  valley  for  the  hunter-king  in  peril  above. 

His  mother,  being  sleepless  and  anxious,  had  risen 
long  before  it  was  dawn,  and  had  gone  to  the  children's 
chamber,  and  had  found  the  bed  of  Findelkind  empty 
once  more. 

He  came  into  the  midst  of  the  people  with  the  two 
little  lambs  in  his  arms,  and  he  heeded  neither  the  out- 
cries of  neighbors  nor  the  frenzied  joy  of  his  mother : 
his  eyes  looked  straight  before  him,  and  his  face  was 
white  like  the  snow. 


232  FINDELKIND. 

"  I  killed  them,"  he  said,  and  then  two  great  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks  and  fell  on  the  little  cold  bodies 
of  the  two  little  dead  brothers. 

Findelkind  was  very  ill  for  many  nights  and  many 
days  after  that. 

Whenever  he  spoke  in  his  fever  he  always  said,  "  I 
killed  them !" 

Never  anything  else. 

So  the  dreary  winter  months  went  by,  while  the  deep 
snow  filled  up  lands  and  meadows,  and  covered  the 
great  mountains  from  summit  to  base,  and  all  around 
Martinswand  was  quite  still,  and  now  and  then  the 
post  went  by  to  Zirl,  and  on  the  holy-days  the  bells 
tolled ;  that  was  all.  His  mother  sat  between  the  stove 
and  his  bed  with  a  sore  heart;  and  his  father  as  he 
went  to  and  fro  between  the  walls  of  beaten  snow,  from 
the  wood-shed  to  the  cattle-byre,  was  sorrowful,  think- 
ing to  himself  the  child  would  die,  and  join  that  earlier 
Findelkind  whose  home  was  with  the  saints. 

But  the  child  did  not  die. 

He  lay  weak  and  wasted  and  almost  motionless  a 
long  time;  but  slowly,  as  the  spring-time  drew  near, 
and  the  snows  on  the  lower  hills  loosened,  and  the 
abounding  waters  coursed  green  and  crystal-clear  down 
all  the  sides  of  the  hills,  Findelkind  revived  as  the 
earth  did,  and  by  the  time  the  new  grass  was  springing 
and  the  first  blue  of  the  gentian  gleamed  on  the  alps, 
he  was  well. 

But  to  this  day  he  seldom  plays  and  scarcely  ever 
laughs.  His  face  is  sad,  and  his  eyes  have  a  look  of 
trouble. 

Sometimes  the  priest  of  Zirl  says  of  him  to  others, 


FINDELKIND.  233 

"  He  will  be  a  great  poet  or  a  great  hero  some  day." 
"Who  knows  ? 

Meanwhile,  in  the  heart  of  the  child  there  reraains 
always  a  weary  pain,  that  lies  on  his  childish  life  as  a 
stone  may  lie  on  a  flower. 

"  I  killed  them  !"  he  says  often  to  himself,  thinking 
of  the  two  little  white  brothers  frozen  to  death  on  Mar- 
tinswand  that  cruel  night ;  and  he  does  the  things  that 
are  told  him,  and  is  obedient,  and  tries  to  be  content 
with  the  humble  daily  duties  that  are  his  lot,  and  when 
he  says  his  prayers  at  bedtime  always  ends  them  so : 

"Dear  God,  do  let  the  little  lambs  play  with  the 
other  Findelkind  that  is  in  heaven." 


MELEAGRIS  GALLOPAVO. 


A  TURKEY  stood  on  a  wall  and  saw  a  drove  of  black 
and  gray  pigs  go  by  on  the  high-road  underneath.  The 
turkey  was  a  very  handsome  gobbler,  and  his  plumage 
was  of  the  most  brilliant  gray  and  white,  and  his 
wattles  were  of  the  red  of  the  carnation  or  the  rose. 
He  was  very  proud,  and  as  he  looked  down  on  the  pigs 
he  stuck  up  his  tail  peacock- wise  and  fanned  the  air 
with  it,  and  strutted  up  and  down  on  the  stone  ledge, 
and  said  to  himself,  "What  poor,  dusty,  hard-driven 
drudges  those  are  in  the  road  there !  And  not  a  single 
feather  upon  them !  Nothing  to  cover  their  bodies  ex- 
cept a  few  dingy-looking  hairs !  And  they  can  only 
make  an  odd  snuffling  noise  instead  of  gobbling !  What 
a  contemptible  grunting  and  grumbling !  And  then 
what  a  tail ! — a  wisp  of  rope  would  be  better !" 

Then  he  spread  his  own  tail  higher  and  higher  and 
broader  and  broader,  just  to  show  the  pigs  what  a  tail 
could  be;  and  he  gobbled  loudly,  that  they  might 
know  what  intelligible  and  melodious  speech  was  like. 

The  poor  pigs  went  snuffling  and  shuffling  along 
in  the  mud  and  stones  beneath  the  wall,  and  were 
driven  into  the  straw-yard  of  the  turkey's  own  farm- 
house. 

Next  morning,  lo!  the  turkej-  was  put  in  a  ooop 
234 


MELEAORIS  GALLOP AVO.  235 

and  was  carried  off  to  market,  with  a  number  of  ducks 
and  geese  and  cackling  pullets,  and  wlio  should  be  next 
to  him  but  a  poor  gray  pig,  with  his  heels  tied  together 
so  that  he  could  not  stir. 

"  What  a  wretched  creature !"  said  the  turkey  in  its 
pride,  for  the  coop  had  not  taken  down  its  vanity  one 
peg.  "  What  a  sorry  animal !  and  such  a  tail !  Of 
course  they  are  going  to  cut  his  throat.  As  for  me, 
this  is  a  throne :  I  suppose  I  am  going  to  the  palace. 
Perhaps  the  queen  has  never  seen  a  beautiful  turkey 
before." 

Then  he  began  again  to  spread  out  his  tail-plume 
and  shake  his  rosy  wattles,  and  began  to  gobble,  gobble, 
gobble  with  all  his  might.  But  the  cart  gave  a  lurch 
and  the  coop  tilted  on  one  side,  and  the  turkey  tilted 
up  with  it  and  lost  his  balance. 

"  Dear  me !  what  a  price  one  pays  for  being  of  high 
rank  in  this  world !"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  clung  to 
the  side  of  the  wicker-work  and  tried  to  preserve  his 
dignity. 

The  poultry  were  all  in  flat  baskets,  and  so  were  the 
geese  and  the  ducks. 

"  He'll  be  fine  for  killing  three  months  hence,  ma'am !" 
his  driver  was  saying,  as  he  stopped  the  cart  and  held 
up  the  coop  to  show  our  gentleman  to  a  woman  who 
stood  on  the  curbstone. 

"  For  killing !"  echoed  the  turkey ;  and  he  swooned 
away,  and  fell  in  a  heap  of  ruffled  feathers  on  the 
bottom  of  the  wicker-work  prison. 

For  death  had  never  occurred  to  him  as  a  possible 
fate  for  himself,  though  he  saw  other  creatures  go  daily 
to  martyrdom. 


236  MELEAORIS  OALLOPAVO. 

"  You  will  be  sooner  or  later  killed,  just  as  I  shall 
be,"  said  the  pig,  with  a  grunt,  as  the  turkey  came  to 
itself.  "  What  do  you  suppose  they  fatten  you  for  ? 
For  love  of  you  ?     Ough  !  you  silly  vain  thing !" 

"  I  thought  it  was  because — because — because  I  am 
a  turkey !"  sighed  the  poor  prisoner  in  the  coop. 

"  Because  you  are  a  turkey !"  echoed  the  pig.  "  As 
if  there  were  not  five  hundred  thousand  turkeys  in  the 
world !  That  is  all.  You  will  be  before  Christmas 
just  as  I  shall  be  :  a  knife  will  slit  your  throat." 

The  poor  turkey  swooned  again  on  hearing  this,  and 
did  not  recover  so  rapidly  as  before :  therefore  the  cart 
had  jolted  on  again  and  was  standing  in  the  market- 
place, with  the  horses  out  of  the  shafts,  before  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  regaiaed  his  consciousness. 

The  master  of  the  cart  was  away  from  it,  and  it  had 
been  unpacked  of  most  of  its  contents,  and  the  pig 
and  the  turkey  were  left  alone. 

Suddenly  the  pig  gave  a  grunt,  and  the  turkey 
started,  for  his  nerves  were  on  edge  and  the  least  thing 
frightened  him. 

"  What  a  hideous  voice  you  have !"  he  said,  pettishly. 
"  You  should  hear  me .'" 

And  he  began  to  gobble  with  all  his  might. 

"  I  don't  see  that  your  noise  is  a  bit  prettier  than 
mine,"  said  the  pig.  "  But  it  is  very  silly  to  lose  your 
time  squabbling  about  voices.  We  could  get  out  if 
you  would  help  me  a  little." 

The  turkey  was  silent. 

To  get  out  would  be  delightful;  but  to  go  into 
partnership  with  piggy  hurt  his  pride  so  much  that  he 
would  not  even  ask  in  what  way  escape  could  be 


MELEAQRIS  GALLOPAVO.  237 

accomplished.  But  the  pig  was  in  too  much  haste  and 
too  much  in  earnest  to  stand  upon  etiquette. 

"  I  can  get  my  snout  to  your  coop,"  he  said,  eagerly ; 
"and  I  will  gnaw  it  asunder — it's  nothing  but  wicker 
— if  you  will  promise  to  peck  my  cords  to  pieces  when 
you  are  out.     Now,  don't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?" 

The  turkey  was  so  enraptured  that  his  pride  all 
tumbled  down  like  a  broken  egg,  and  his  wings  began 
to  flap  in  a  tremendous  flurry. 

"  Make  haste !  make  haste !"  he  cried,  and  gobbled 
till  he  was  red  in  the  face. 

"  Don't  make  such  a  noise,  or  they'll  hear  you,"  said 
the  pig,  getting  his  teeth  well  on  to  the  wicker,  "  and 
then  you  and  I  shall  go  up  as  the  alderman  and  his 
chains  on  to  some  horrid  man's  table." 

"  Alderman  ?"  said  the  turkey. 

"They  call  a  roast  turkey  and  its  sausages  so," 
explained  the  pig. 

The  turkey  thought  it  very  ghastly  pleasantry. 

The  pig  meanwhile  was  hard  at  work,  and  in  a  very 
little  time  he  had  gnawed,  and  pulled,  and  bitten,  and 
twisted  the  coop  on  the  side  near  to  him  in  such  an 
effectual  manner  that  the  turkey  soon  got  his  head 
through,  and  then  his  throat,  and  then  his  body.  He 
gave  a  gobble  of  glory  and  joy. 

"  But  undo  me !"  squeaked  the  pig. 

Now,  the  turkey  was  in  a  fearful  hurry  to  be  gone ; 
his  heart  beat  and  his  wings  flapped  so  that  he  almost 
fell  into  convulsions ;  but  he  was  a  bird  of  honor  and 
good  faith.  He  bent  down  and  pecked  with  such 
frantic  force  at  the  knots  tying  the  pig's  legs  that  he 
filled  his  beak  with  frayed  cord,  and  in  less  time  than 


238  MELEAGRIS  GALLOP AVO. 

I  take  to  write  it  piggy  tumbled  in  his  heavy  fashion 
off  the  cart  on  to  the  ground, — free. 

"Now  run,"  said  the  pig;  and  nobody  knows  how 
fast  a  pig  can  run  who  has  not  seen  him  put  his  mind 
and  his  will  into  it.  The  turkey  could  not  fly,  be- 
cause his  wings  were  cut,  and  tame  turkeys  seldom 
know  much  about  flying ;  but,  what  with  a  stride  and 
a  flutter  mixed  in  one,  he  managed  to  cover  the  ground 
rapidly,  and  kept  up  side  by  side  with  the  pig,  who,  for 
his  part,  knowing  the  country,  kept  steadily  on  down 
the  road,  which  fortunately  for  them  was  a  solitary  one, 
and  made  straight  for  a  wood  which  he  saw  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  wood  was  about  a  mile  and  a  half  off,  and 
the  two  comrades  were  in  sore  distress  when  they  came 
up  to  it ;  but  they  did  reach  it  unstopped,  and  sank 
down  on  the  grass  under  some  larches  with  a  sigh  of 
content. 

"  Such  a  useless  tree  the  larch !"  murmured  the  pig ; 
"  not  an  acorn  on  it  once  in  all  its  days !" 

For,  of  course,  the  pig  viewed  all  trees  only  in  rela- 
tion to  acorns. 

"  I  can't  eat  acorns,"  sighed  the  turkey,  as  soon  as  he 
got  his  breath. 

"  You  ungrateful  creature,"  said  the  pig  in  re- 
proof. "  Be  content  that  you  have  escaped  with  your 
life." 

"  Are  you  sure  we  have  escaped  ?" 

"  We  have  escaped  for  the  time,"  said  the  philosophic 
pig ;  "  and  to  be  loose  in  a  wood  is  heaven  upon  earth. 
There  must  be  grain,  or  berries,  or  something  you  can 
pick  up,  if  only  you  will  look  about  for  it." 

Now  it  was  easy  for  the  good  pig  to  be  philosophic, 


MELEAORIS  OALLOPAVO.  239 

because  near  at  hand  he  had  smelt  out  a  savory  spot  in 
the  mossy  ground,  and  he  was  right  in  the  very  middle 
of  a  hearty  meal  of  truffles. 

"  I  never  thought  to  have  to  beg  my  bread,"  sighed 
the  turkey. 

"  Who  do  you  suppose  would  take  the  trouble  to  feed 
you  if  it  was  not  to  kill  you  ?"  grunted  the  pig,  with 
his  mouth  quite  full.  "  You  need  not  beg  your  bread, 
as  you  call  it ;  look  for  it, — as  I  do." 

The  turkey,  pressed  by  hunger,  did  begin  to  look. 
A  tame  turkey,  you  know,  knows  nothing  about  feed- 
ing itself;  food  is  thrown  out  to  it;  and  our  turkey,  at 
any  rate,  had  always  supposed  that  was  an  ordination 
of  Providence. 

But  little  by  little,  watching  the  pig  devouring  the 
truffles,  natural  appetites  and  instincts  awoke  in  him : 
no  doubt  his  grandparents  a  hundred  times  removed 
had  been  wild  turkeys  by  the  borders  of  the  Missouri 
or  in  the  woods  of  Arkansas,  and  hereditary  instincts 
revived  in  him  under  the  all-potent  prick  of  hunger. 
He  did  begin  to  look  about,  and  spied  a  wild  straw- 
berry or  two  and  ate  them,  and  saw  a  blackberry-bush 
and  stripped  it,  and,  finding  a  big  grasshopper  and  a 
small  frog,  found  an  appetite  also  for  them. 

"  I  never  kncAV  so  much  natural  nourishment  grew 
about  one,"  he  remarked  to  the  pig,  who  snorted, — 

"  There  is  food  enough ;  only  men  take  it  all.  Your 
people  are  all  in  America,  but  men  can't  let  them  alone 
even  there,  so  I  have  lieard.  Oh,  there  is  a  pretty  hen- 
pheasant  !     Good-morning,  Madame  Phasiani." 

"  Is  that  her  name  ?"  asked  the  turkey. 

" It  is  her  family  name;  and  your  own  is  Meleagris 


240  MELEAGRIS  GALLOPAVO. 

Gallopavo,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  knew  that,"  said 
the  pig,  very  snappishly. 

The  turkey  was  silent.  Meleagris  Gallopavo !  That 
really  was  a  very  fine  name ! 

"  Is  one  well  off  in  this  wood,  Madame  Phasiani?" 
asked  the  pig  of  the  pheasant,  who  sighed,  and  replied 
that  the  wood  was  very  nice,  and  Indian  corn  was 
thrown  out  twice  a  day  ;  but  then  when  there  was  the 
trail  of  the  beater  over  it  all,  who  could  be  happy  ? 

"  There  is  the  trail  of  the  butcher  over  me,"  said  the 
pig,  "  but  I  enjoy  myself  whilst  I  can.  You  mentioned 
Indian  corn,  madam :  is  the  keeper's  cottage  unfor- 
tunately near  us,  then  ?" 

She  said  it  was  half  a  mile  off,  or  perhaps  not  so 
much. 

"  This  is  a  preserve,  then  ?"  said  the  pig. 

She  sighed  again,  and  said  it  was,  and  sauntered 
pensively  away  with  her  head  on  one  side,  as  pheasants 
always  do. 

"  I  hoped  it  was  a  bit  of  wild  coppice,"  said  the  pig. 
"Ah,  here  is  a  kingfisher.     How  do,  Mr.  Alced?" 

But  the  kingfisher,  who  is  the  shyest  creature  upon 
earth,  skimmed  away  in  silence. 

"  Why  do  you  call  them  all  those  fine  names  ?"  said 
the  turkey. 

"  It  costs  nothing,  and  it  pleases  them,"  said  the  pig, 
curtly.  "  It  is  part  of  men's  tomfoolery,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause ;  and  then,  seeing  a  turtle-dove,  he  grunted 
in  his  most  amiable  fashion,  "Sir  Turtur  Auritus, 
good-day.  We  are  resting  in  your  wood  a  little  while ; 
it  is  very  cool,  and  green,  and  pleasant.  May  I  ask  if 
it  be  also  safe  f 


'/J>%^) 


'jf}'  -*^^l:i:*A. 


"may    1    ASK    IF    IT    BE     ALSO     SAFE?" 


MELEAQRIS  OALLOPAVO.  241 

"Safe!"  said  the  turtle-dove,  sitting  down  on  a 
cranberry-bough.  "  There  are  guns,  guns,  guns,  from 
morning  to  night." 

"  Surely  not  this  time  of  the  year  ?     No  !" 

"  There  are  for  us,"  said  the  turtle-dove,  sorro\vfully ; 
"  and  when  there  are  not  guns  there  are  traps.  They 
have  no  mercy  on  us.  We  only  eat  the  pine-kernels, 
the  wood-spurge,  grain,  the  little  snails.  We  do  no 
harm.  Yet  they  hunt  us  down  ;  they  put  poisoned 
colza  for  us ;  they  kill  us  by  thousands ;  and  I  have 
heard — though  it  seems  too  terrible  to  be  true — that 
they  pack  us  alive  in  hampers,  keep  us  shut  up  one 
atop  of  another  for  days,  then  pull  our  tail-feathers 
out,  and  shut  us  up  again  in  another  box ;  when  that 
box  flies  open  they  shoot  at  us,  so  I  have  heard." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  my  gentlemen  call  that  their  'poules,'  and 
give  each  other  prizes  for  doing  it,"  said  the  pig,  with  a 
grim  sympathy.  "  They  think  it  vulgar  when  the  lads 
at  village  fairs  grease  our  tails  and  hunt  us.  Dear  Sir 
Turtur  Auritus,  is  there  such  a  gigantic  sham,  such  an 
unutterable  beast  anywhere  as  Man  ?" 

"  I  should  think  there  is  not,"  said  the  turtle-dove. 
"  Myself  I  live  out  of  the  world,  on  the  top  of  that 
lime-tree  you  see  there,  and  if  I  can  only  alight  safely 
to  feed  and  drink  twice  a  day,  I  ask  no  more." 

A  pretty  partridge  went  tripping  by  at  that  moment, 
with  some  finely-grown  sons  and  daughters  after  her. 
She  was  a  charming  and  lovely  creature,  only  she  had 
a  sadly  nervous  manner. 

"When  it  grows  near  the  1st  of  September,"  she 
said  in  a  tone  of  apology  to  the  pig,  who  saluted  her 
as  Lady  Starnacineria,  "  every  sound,  the  very  slightest 
L        J  21 


242  MELEAORIS  GALLOPAVO. 

sends  my  heart  up  into  my  mouth,  and  I  take  every 
stone  for  a  dog.  What  is  the  use  or  the  joy  of  bring- 
ing these  dear  children  into  a  world  of  shot?  Their 
doom  is  to  be  huddled  alive  into  a  game-bag,  with 
broken  limbs  and  torn  bodies,  and  my  lord  will  think 
himself  a  saint  fit  for  heaven  if  he  send  a  hamper  of 
them  up  to  a  hospital." 

"  All  men's  hypocrisy,  madam,"  said  the  pig.  "  I 
prefer  the  frank,  blunt  snap  of  the  fox,  who  makes 
no  pretence  of  Christian  charit}',  but  only  wants  his 
dinner." 

"  If  it  were  only  the  fox,"  sighed  the  partridge, 
"  that  would  be  very  bearable ;  and  he  likes  a  common 
hen  quite  as  well  as  ourselves, — and  better,  because  the 
poor  vulgar  creature  is  bigger." 

With  a  sigh  she  devoted  herself  to  laying  open 
an  ants'  nest,  and  called  to  her  young  to  devour  the 
eggs  in  it. 

"  This  seems  a  very  nice  home  of  yours,"  said  the 
pig,  to  provoke  conversation. 

The  partridge  sighed  as  the  pheasant  had  done. 

"It  is  too  charming  among  these  turnips,"  she 
said,  "  and  there  is  most  excellent  fare  all  over  these 
fields ;  but,  alas !  for  what  a  fate  do  I  live  and  hatch 
these  dear  children — the  gun,  the  dog,  the  bag !  Ah, 
dear  sir,  life  to  a  partridge,  where  man  is,  is  only  a 
vale  of  tears,  though  led  in  the  best  of  corn-fields !" 

And  she  said  "  Cheep,  cheep,"  and  made  a  restless 
little  flutter  of  all  her  feathers,  and  crept  under  the  rail 
again  back  among  the  turnips. 

At  that  moment  a  fine  black  rabbit,  with  a  white  tuft 
for  a  tail,  darted  by  too  quick  for  the  pig  to  stop  him. 


MELEAGRIS   GALLOPAVO.  243 

"Ah,  he  has  a  sad  life, — almost  as  sad  as  mine!" 
said  the  turtle-dove.  "  He  dwells  in  quite  a  humble 
way  under  ground,  but  they  never  let  him  alone. 
When  they  can  shoot  nothing  else,  they  are  forever 
banging  and  blazing  at  him.  And  they  put  a  ferret 
through  his  hall  door  without  even  knocking  to  say 
they  are  there.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  poor  bunnies 
sitting  outside  their  warrens  cleaning  their  faces  like 
pussy-cats  in  the  cool  of  the  early  morning !  Ah,  such 
a  pretty  sight !  But  men  only  want  them  for  their 
pelts  or  to  put  them  in  a  pie." 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  men,  dear  lady  ?"  said  the 
pig,  as  a  red-and-white  cow  came  and  looked  over  the 
fence. 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  them !"  said  the  cow,  with  un- 
feigned horror.  "  Don't  they  massacre  all  my  pretty 
children,  and  drive  me  to  market  with  my  udders 
bursting,  and  break  my  heart  and  brand  my  skin? 
and  when  I  am  grown  old  will  they  not  knock 
me  on  the  head,  or  run  a  knife  through  my  spine, 
and  turn  me  into  a  hundred  uses,  hide,  and  hoofs, 
and  everything?  it  is  all  written  in  their  children's 
lesson-books.  '  The  most  useful  animal  in  the  king- 
dom of  nature  is  a  cow.'  That  is  what  they  say. 
Ugh !" 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  the  pig,  turning  to  the 
turkey,  "you  see  that  every  living  thing  is  devoured 
by  man.  Why  should  you  suppose  you  were  to  be 
the  exception  ?" 

"No  one  has  such  a  tail  as  I  have,"  said  the 
turkey. 

His  fright  over,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 


244  MELEAGRIS  GALLOP AVO. 

nobody  would  ever  do  anything  except  adore  a  being 
with  such  a  tail  as  his. 

"  What  is  your  tail  compared  with  the  peacock's  ?" 
said  the  pig,  with  scorn.  "  You  are  only  so  vain 
because  you  are  so  ignorant." 

"  Do  they  kill  peacocks  ?"  asked  the  turkey. 

"No;  I  don't  think  they  do,"  replied  the  pig, 
truthful,  though  truth  demolished  his  theories,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  for  human  philosophers. 

"  Then  why  do  they  keep  them  ?"  said  the  turkey. 

"  Because  they  have  such  wonderful  tails,"  said  the 
pig,  incautiously. 

"  TAe/'e .'"  said  the  turkey,  triumphantly ;  and  out 
he  spread  his  own  tail,  making  it  into  a  very  grand 
wheel,  and  crying  with  all  his  might  in  that  peculiar 
voice  which  nature  has  given  to  turkeys,  "  I  am  Mele- 
agris  Gallopavo !     I  am  Meleagris  Gallopavo !" 

He  had  never  known  his  new  name  till  five  minutes 
previously ;  but  that  made  no  difference :  he  was  just 
as  vain  of  it  as  if  he  had  borne  it  all  his  life.  Ask 
the  Herald's  College  if  this  be  uncommon. 

He  had  stretched  his  throat  out,  and  his  rosy 
wattles  glowed  like  geraniums,  and  he  turned  slowly 
round  and  round  so  that  every  one  might  admire  him, 
and  he  stuck  his  tail  up  on  high  as  stiff  and  as  straight 
as  if  it  had  been  made  of  pasteboard. 

"  I  am  Meleagris  Gallopavo !"  he  cried,  with  a  very 
shrill  shriek,  and  scattered  the  sandy  soil  of  the  wood 
all  about  him  with  his  hind  claws. 

Crack  !  A  bludgeon  rolled  him  over,  a  mere  ball  of 
ruffled,  crumpled  feathers,  on  the  ground,  and  a  lurcher 
dog  ran  into  him  and  gripped  him  tight  and  hard. 


MELEAGRIS  GALLOP AVO.  245 

"  We're  in  luck,  mate !"  said  an  ill-looking  fellow 
who  was  prowling  along  the  edge  of  the  field  with 
another  as  ill  favored.  "  Mum's  the  word,  and  he'll 
go  in  the  pot  worth  twenty  rabbits.  Who'd  ha'  thought 
of  finding  a  darned  turkey  out  on  the  spree  ?" 

Then  the  cruel  man  rammed  poor  Meleagris  Gallo- 
pavo  into  a  bag  that  he  carried  with  him.  He  was  a 
village  ne'er-do-weel,  seeing  if  he  could  trespass  with 
impunity  and  knock  over  a  bunny  or  two  on  the  sly. 
knowing  that  the  keepers  were  away  from  that  part  of 
the  wood  that  day.  The  pig  lay  hidden  among  the 
wood-spurge  and  the  creeping  moss,  and  looked  so 
exactly  like  a  log  of  grayish-brown  timber  that  the 
ruffians  never  noticed  him. 

"  I  knew  his  tail  would  be  the  undoing  of  him !" 
he  said,  sorrowfully,  as  his  poor  friend  was  borne  off 
dead  in  the  poachers'  sack. 

He  himself  had  never  looked  so  complacently  on  his 
own  gray  hairless  wisp  as  he  did  now.  How  conven- 
ient it  was !  Anybody  would  take  it  for  a  bit  of  dry 
grass  or  a  twig. 

I  may  as  well  add  that  the  mistress  of  the  wood  came 
through  it  next  day,  and  the  pig  followed  her  home, 
and  ate  an  apple  which  she  gave  him  so  cannily  that 
she  sent  him  into  her  yard,  and  has  kept  him  like  a 
very  prince  of  pigs  ever  since.  But  he  is  always  sorry 
for  his  poor  friend's  fate ;  and  he  has  never  since  told 
any  turkey  that  its  family  name  is  Meleagris  Gallopavo. 

21* 


THE  LITTLE  EARL. 


The  little  Earl  was  a  very  little  one  indeed,  as 
far  as  years  and  stature  were,  but  he  was  a  very  big 
one  if  you  consider  his  possessions  and  his  impor- 
tance. He  was  only  a  month  old  when  his  father 
died,  and  only  six  months  old  when  his  mother,  too, 
left  him  for  the  cold  damp  vault,  with  its  marbles 
and  its  rows  of  velvet  coffins, — a  vault  that  was  very 
grand,  but  so  chilly  and  so  desolate  that  when  they 
took  the  little  Earl  there  on  holy-days  to  lay  his 
flowers  down  upon  the  dead  he  could  never  sleep  for 
nights  afterwards,  remembering  its  darkness  and 
solemnity. 

The  little  Earl  was  called  Hubert  Hugh  Lupus 
Alured  Beaudesert,  and  was  the  Earl  of  Avillion  and 
Lantrissaint ;  but  by  his  own  friends  and  his  grand- 
mother and  his  old  nurse  he  was  called  only  Bertie. 

He  was  eight  years  old  in  the  summer-time,  when 
there  befell  him  the  adventure  I  am  going  now  to  relate 
to  you,  and  he  was,  for  his  age,  quite  a  baby ;  he  was 
slender  and  slight,  and  he  had  a  sweet  little  face  like  a 
flower,  with  very  big  eyes,  and  a  quantity  of  fair  hair 
cut  after  the  fashion  of  the  Reynolds  and  Gains- 
borough children.  He  had  always  been  kept  as  if  he 
were  a  china  doll  that  would  break  at  a  touch.  His 
246 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  247 

grandmother  and  his  uncle  had  been  left  the  sole  charge 
of  him;  and  as  they  were  both  invalids,  and  the  latter 
a  priest,  and  both  dwelt  in  great  retirement  at  the  castle 
of  Avillion,  the  little  Earl's  little  life  had  not  been  a 
boy's  life. 

He  had  always  been  tranquil,  for  every  one  loved 
him,  and  he  had  all  things  that  he  wished  for ;  yet  he 
was  treated  more  as  if  he  were  a  rare  flower  or  a  most 
fragile  piece  of  porcelain,  than  a  little  bright  boy  of 
real  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  without  knowing  it,  he  was 
often  tired  of  all  his  cotton-wool.  He  was  such  a  tiny 
fellow,  you  see,  to  be  the  head  of  his  race,  and  the  last 
of  it  too ;  for  there  were  no  others  of  this  great  race 
from  which  he  had  sprung,  and  his  uncle,  as  a  priest, 
could  never  marry.  Thus  so  much  depended  on  this 
small  short  life  that  the  fuss  made  over  him,  and  the 
care  taken  of  him,  had  ended  in  making  him  so  in- 
capable of  taking  any  care  of  himself  that  if  he  had 
ever  got  out  alone  in  a  street  he  would  have  been  run 
over  to  a  certainty,  and  as  he  grew  older  he  grew  sad 
and  feverish,  and  chafed  because  he  was  never  allowed 
to  do  the  things  that  all  boys  by  instinct  love  to  do. 
By  nature  the  little  Earl  was  very  brave,  but  he  was 
made  timid  by  incessant  cautions ;  and  as  he  was,  too, 
by  nature  very  thoughtful,  the  seclusion  from  other 
children  in  which  he  was  brought  up  made  him  too 
serious  for  his  age. 

Avillion  was  deep-bosomed  in  woods,  throned  high 
above  a  lake  and  moors  and  mountains,  and  setting  its 
vast  stone  buttresses  firmly  down  into  the  greenest, 
smoothest  turf  in  all  the  green  west  country  of  Eng- 
land ;  a  grand  and  glorious  place,  famous  in  history, 


248  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

full  of  majesty  and  magnificence,  and  sung  to,  forever, 
by  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  waves.  Once  upon 
a  time  the  Arthurian  Court  that  Mr.  Tennyson  has  told 
you  of  so  often  had  held  its  solemn  jousts  and  its  blame- 
less revels  there;  at  least,  so  said  the  story  of  AvilHon, 
as  told  in  ballads  of  the  country-side, — more  trust- 
worthy historians  than  most  people  think. 

All  those  ballads  the  little  Earl  knew  by  heart,  and 
he  loved  them  more  than  anything,  for  Deborah,  his 
nurse,  had  crooned  them  over  his  cradle  before  ever  he 
could  understand  even  the  words  of  them ;  so  that 
Arthur  and  Launcelot,  and  Sir  Gawain  and  Sir  Gala- 
had, and  all  the  knightly  lives  that  were  once  at  Tin- 
tagel,  were  more  real  to  him  than  the  living  figures 
about  hira,  and  these  fancies  served  him  as  his  play- 
mates,— for  he  had  few  others,  except  his  dog  Ralph  and 
his  pony  Royal.  His  relatives  were  ailing,  melancholy, 
attached  to  silence  and  solitude,  and  though  they  would 
have  melted  gold  and  pearls  for  Bertie's  drinking  if 
he  could  have  drunk  them,  never  bethought  themselves 
that  noise  and  romps  and  laughter  and  fun  and  a  little 
spice  of  peril  are  all  things  without  which  a  child's  life 
is  as  dead  and  spiritless  as  a  squirrel's  in  a  cage.  And 
Bertie  did  not  know  it  either.  He  studied  under  his 
tutor.  Father  Philip,  a  noble  and  learned  old  man,  and 
he  was  caressed  and  cosseted  by  his  nurse  Deborah,  and 
he  wore  beautiful  little  dresses,  most  usually  of  velvet, 
and  he  had  wonderful  toys  that  were  sent  from  Paris, 
automatons  that  danced  and  fenced  and  played  the 
guitar,  and  animals  that  did  just  what  live  animals  do, 
and  Punches  and  puppets  that  played  and  mimicked  by 
clock-work,  and  little  yachts  that  sailed  by  clock-work, 


TEE  LITTLE  EARL.  249 

and  whole  armies  of  soldiers,  and  marvellous  games 
costly  and  splendid ;  but  he  had  nobody  to  play  at  all 
these  things  with,  and  it  was  dull  work  playing  with 
them  by  himself.  Deborah  played  with  them  in  the 
best  way  she  knew,  but  she  was  not  a  child,  being  sixty- 
six  years  old,  and  was  of  a  slow  imagination  and  of 
rheumatic  movements. 

"  Run  and  play,"  Father  Philip  would  often  say  to 
him,  taking  him  perforce  from  his  books;  but  the 
little  Earl  would  answer,  sadly,  "I  have  nobody  to 
play  with !" 

That  want  of  his  attracted  no  attention  from  all 
those  peoj^le  who  loved  the  ground  his  little  feet  trod 
on ;  he  was  surrounded  with  every  splendor  and  indul- 
gence, he  had  half  the  toys  of  the  Palais  Royal  in  his 
nursery,  and  he  had  a  bed  to  sleep  in  of  ivory  inlaid 
with  silver,  that  had  once  belonged  to  the  little  King 
of  Rome ;  millions  of  money  were  being  stored  up  for 
him,  and  lands  wide  enough  to  make  a  principality 
called  him  lord  :  it  never  occurred  to  anybody  that  the 
little  Earl  of  Avillion  was  not  the  most  fortunate  child 
that  lived  under  the  sun. 

"Why  do  people  all  call  me  'my  lord'?"  he  asked 
one  day,  suddenly  becoming  observant  of  this  fact. 

"  Because  you  are  my  lord,"  said  Deborah, — which 
did  not  content  him. 

He  asked  Father  Philip. 

"  My  dear  little  boy,  it  is  your  title :  think  not  of 
it  save  as  an  obligation  to  bear  your  rank  well  and 
without  stain." 

At  last  the  little  Earl  grew  so  pale  and  thin  and  so 
delicate  in  health  that  the  physician  who  was  always 


250  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

watching  over  him  said  to  his  grandmother  that  the  boy 
wanted  change  of  air,  and  advised  the  southern  coast 
for  him,  and  cessation  of  almost  all  study;  which  order 
grieved  Father  Philip  sorely,  for  Bertie  could  read  his 
Livy  M'cll,  and  was  beginning  to  spell  through  his 
Xenophon,  and  it  cut  the  learned  gentleman  to  the 
heart  that  his  pupil  should  give  up  all  this  and  go  back 
on  the  royal  road  to  learning.  For  both  he  and  his 
uncle  were  resolved  that  the  little  Earl  should  be  very 
learned,  and  the  boy  was  eager  enough  to  learn,  only 
he  liked  still  better  knowing  how  the  flowers  grew,  and 
why  the  birds  could  fly  while  he  could  not,  and  how 
the  wood-bee  made  his  neat  house  in  the  tree-trunk,  and 
the  beaver  built  his  dam  across  the  river, — inquiries 
which  everybody  about  him  was  inclined  to  discourage. 
Natural  science  was  not  looked  on  with  favor  in  the 
nursery  and  school-room  of  Avillion.  It  was  considered 
to  lead  people  astray. 

So  the  little  Earl  was  moved  southward,  with  his 
grandmother,  and  his  nurse,  and  his  physician,  and 
Ralph  and  Royal, — for  he  would  not  go  without  them, 
— and  several  servants  as  well.  They  were  to  go  to 
Shankliu  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  they  made  the 
journey  by  sea  in  the  beautiful  sailing-yacht  which  was 
waiting  for  Bertie's  manhood,  after  having  been  the 
idol  of  his  father's.  On  board,  the  little  Earl  was  well 
amused ;  but  he  worried  every  one  about  him  by  ques- 
tions as  to  the  fishes. 

'^  Lord,  child !  they  are  but  nasty  clammy  things, 
only  nice  when  they  are  cooked,"  said  his  nurse;  and 
his  grandmamma  said  to  him,  "  Dear,  they  were  made 
to  live  in  the  sea,  just  as  the  birds  are  made  to  fly  in 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  251 

the  air."  Aud  this  did  not  satisfy  the  little  man  at  all; 
but  he  could  get  no  more  information,  for  the  doctor, 
who  could  have  told  him  a  good  deal,  was  under  the 
thumb  of  his  stately  mistress,  and  Lady  Avillion  had 
said  very  sternly  that  the  boy  was  not  to  be  encouraged 
in  his  nonsense:  what  he  must  be  taught  were  the 
duties  of  his  position  and  all  he  owed  to  the  country, — 
the  poor  little  Earl ! 

He  was  a  very  small,  slender,  pale-cheeked  lord  in- 
deed, with  his  golden  hair  hanging  over  his  puzzled 
forehead,  that  used  to  ache  sometimes  with  carrying 
Xeuophon  and  Livy,  and  underneath  the  hair  two 
great  wondering  blue  eyes,  of  a  blue  so  dark  that  they 
were  like  wet  violets.  His  hands  were  tiny  and  thin, 
and  his  legs,  clad  in  their  red-silk  stockings  and  black- 
velvet  breeches,  were  like  two  sticks :  people  who  saw 
him  go  by  whispered  about  him  and  said  all  the  poor 
little  fellow's  rank  and  riches  would  not  keep  him  long 
in  the  land  of  the  living.  Once  the  little  Earl  heard 
that  said,  and  understood  what  it  meant,  and  thought 
to  himself,  "I  shouldn't  mind  dying  if  I  could  take 
Ralph  :  perhaps  there  would  be  somebody  to  play  with 
there." 

It  was  May,  and  there  were  not  many  folks  at 
Shanklin :  still,  there  were  two  or  three  children  he 
might  have  played  with,  but  his  grandmamma  thought 
them  vulgar  children,  not  fit  playmates  for  him ;  aud 
so  the  poor  little  Earl,  with  the  burden  of  his  great- 
ness, had  to  walk  soberly  and  sadly  past  them,  with 
his  little  tired  red-stockinged  legs,  while  the  little  girls 
said  to  each  other,  in  a  whisper,  "  There's  a  little  lord  !" 
and  the  boys  hallooed  out,  "  He's  the  swell  that  owns 


252  ^-H"^  LITTLE  EARL. 

the  schooner."  Bertie  would  sigh,  as  he  heard  :  what 
was  the  use  of  owning  the  schooner,  when  you  had  no 
one  to  play  with  on  it,  and  never  could  do  what  you 
liked  ? 

You  have  never  seen  Shanklin,  for  you  have  never 
been  in  England ;  and  if  you  do  go  now,  you  will 
never  see  it  as  it  was  when  Bertie  walked  there,  when 
it  was  the  prettiest  and  most  primitive  little  place  in 
England ;  now,  they  tell  me,  it  has  been  made  into  a 
watering-place,  with  a  pier  and  an  esplanade. 

Shanklin  used  to  be  a  little  green  mossy  village  cov- 
ered up  in  honeysuckle  and  hawthorn  ;  low  long  houses, 
green  too  with  ivy  and  creepers,  hid  themselves  away 
in  sweet-smelling  old-fashioned  gardens ;  yellow  roads 
ran  between  high  banks  and  hedges  out  to  the  green 
down  or  downward  to  the  ripple  of  the  sea ;  and  the 
cool  brown  sands,  glistening  and  firm,  twice  a  day  felt 
the  kiss  of  the  tide.  The  cliffs  were  brown  too,  for  the 
most  part ;  some  were  white ;  the  gray  sea  stretched  in 
front ;  and  the  glory  of  the  place  was  its  leafy  chine 
and  ravine  that  severed  the  rocks  and  was  full  of 
foliage  and  of  the  sound  of  birds.  It  used  to  be  all 
so  quiet  there ;  now  and  then  there  passed  in  the  offing 
a  brig  or  a  yacht  or  a  man-of-war;  now  and  then 
farmers'  carts  came  in  from  the  downs  by  Appuldur- 
combe  or  the  farms  beyond  the  Undercliif ;  there  were 
some  fishing-cabins  by  the  beach,  and  one  old  inn  with 
a  long  grassy  garden,  where  the  coaches  used  to  stop 
that  ran  through  the  quiet  country  from  Ryde  to 
Ventnor.  It  was  so  green,  so  still,  so  friendly,  so 
fresh ;  when  I  think  of  it  I  hear  the  swish  of  its  lazy 
waves,  and  I  smell  the  smell  of  its  eglantine  hedges, 


THE    LITTLE  EARL.  253 

and  I  see  the  big  brown  eyes  of  my  gallant  dog  as  he 
came  breathless  up  from  the  sea. 

Alas !  you  will  never  see  it  so.  The  hedges  are 
down,  they  tell  me,  and  the  grand  dog  is  dead,  and  the 
hateful  engine  tears  through  the  fields,  and  the  sands 
are  beaten  to  make  an  esplanade,  and  the  beach  is 
noisy  and  hideous  with  the  bray  of  bands  and  the 
laughter  of  fools. 

What  will  the  world  be  like  when  you  are  twenty  ? 
Very  frightful,  I  fear.     This  is  progress,  they  say  ? 

But  what  of  the  little  Earl  ?  you  ask. 

Well,  the  little  Earl  knew  Shanklin  as  I  knew  it, — 
when  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  sang  in  the  quiet 
chine,  and  the  sense  of  an  infinite  peace  dwelt  on  its 
simple  shores.  His  grandmamma  had  taken  for  the 
summer  the  house  that  stands  in  its  woods  at  the  head 
of  the  chine  and  looks  straight  down  that  rift  of 
greenery  to  the  gray  sea.  I  know  not  what  that  house 
is  now;  then  it  was  charming,  chalet-like,  yet  spa- 
cious. 

Here  the  little  Earl  was  set  free  of  his  studies  and 
kept  out  in  the  air  when  it  was  fine,  and  when  it 
rained  was  sent,  not  to  his  books,  but  to  his  toys.  Yet 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  any  great  change  ;  for  when  he 
rode,  James  was  with  him ;  and  when  he  walked, 
Deborah  was  with  him  ;  and  when  he  bathed,  William 
was  with  him ;  and  when  he  was  only  in  the  garden, 
there  was  grandmamma. 

He  was  never  alone.    Oh,  how  he  longed  to  be  alone 

sometimes !     And  he  never  had  any  playfellows :  how 

he  would  watch  those  two  or  three  vulgar  little  boys 

building  sand-castles   and   sailing   their  boats!      He 

22 


254  '^SE  LITTLE  EARL. 

would  have  given  all  his  big  schooner  and  its  crew  to 
be  one  of  those  little  boys. 

He  had  a  cruise  now  and  then  off  the  island,  and  the 
skipper  came  up  bare-headed  and  hoped  my  lord  en- 
joyed the  sail ;  but  he  did  not  enjoy  it.  William  and 
Deborah  were  always  after  him,  telling  him  to  mind 
this,  and  take  care  of  that,  till  he  wished  his  pretty 
snow-white  sailor  dress  with  the  gold  buttons  were 
only  rags  and  tatters !  For  the  poor  little  Earl  was 
an  adventurous  and  curious  little  lad  at  heart,  and  had 
a  spirit  of  his  own,  though  he  was  so  meek ;  and  he 
was  tired  of  being  treated  like  a  baby. 

His  eighth  birthday  came  round  in  June,  and  won- 
derful and  magnificent  were  the  presents  he  had  sent 
him  ;  but  he  only  felt  a  little  more  tired  than  he  had 
done  before ;  the  bonbons  he  was  not  allowed  to  eat, 
the  splendidly-bound  books  seemed  nonsense  to  a  little 
classic  who  read  Livy ;  the  toys  he  did  not  care  for, 
and  the  gold  dressing-case  his  grandmamma  gave  him 
was  no  pleasure :  he  had  one  in  silver,  and  his  very 
hair  he  was  never  permitted  to  brush  himself. 

"As  I  may  not  eat  the  bonbons,  might  I  send  them 
all  to  the  children  on  the  sands?"  he  asked  wistfully 
of  his  grandmother. 

"Impossible,  my  love,"  she  answered.  "We  do  not 
know  who  they  are." 

"  INIay  I  give  them  to  the  poor  children  then  ?"  said 
the  little  lad. 

"  That  would  hardly  be  wise,  dear.  It  would  give 
them  a  taste  for  luxuries." 

Bertie  sighed:  life  on  this  his  eighth  birthday  seemed 
very  empty. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  255 

"Why  are  people  strangers  to  each  other?  Why 
does  not  everybody  speak  to  every  one  else  ?"  he  said 
at  last,  desperately.  "  St.  Paul  says  we  are  all  brothers, 
and  St.  Francis " 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  talk  nonsense,"  said  Lady 
Avillion.  "  We  shall  have  you  a  Radical  when  you 
are  of  age !" 

"  What  is  that?"  said  Bertie. 

"  The  people  who  slew  your  dear  Charles  the  First 
were  Radicals,"  said  his  grandmother,  cleverly. 

He  was  discouraged  and  silent.  He  went  sorrow- 
fully and  leaned  against  one  of  the  windows  and  looked 
down  the  green  vista  of  the  chine.  It  was  raining,  and 
they  would  not  let  him  go  out  of  doors.  He  thought 
to  himself,  "  What  use  is  it  calling  me  ^  my  lord,'  and 
telling  me  I  own  so  much,  and  bowing  down  before 
me,  if  I  may  never  do  once,  just  once,  as  I  like?  I 
know  I  am  a  little  boy ;  but  then,  if  I  am  an  Earl,  if 
I  am  good  enough  to  be  that,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
once  as  I  like.  Else,  if  not,  what  is  the  use?  And 
why  does  the  skipper  say  always  to  me,  '  Your  lord- 
ship is  owner  here'  ?" 

And  then  a  fancy  came  into  his  little  head.  Was 
he  like  the  Princes  in  the  Tower?  Was  he  a  prisoner, 
after  all?  His  little  mind  was  full  of  the  pageant  of 
history,  and  he  made  his  mind  up  now  that  he  was  a 
princely  captive  watched  and  warded. 

"Tell  me,  dear  Deb,"  he  said,  catching  his  nurse 
by  the  sleeve  as  she  turned  from  his  bed  that  night, 
"  tell  me,  is  it  not  true  that  I  am  in  prison,  though 
you  are  all  so  kind  to  me ;  that  somebody  else  wants 
ray  throne  ?" 


256  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

Nurse  Deborah  thought  he  was  "  off  his  head/'  and 
ran  to  the  physician  for  a  cooling  draught,  and  sat  up 
in  fright  all  the  night,  not  even  reassured  by  his  sound 
tranquil  sleep. 

Bertie  asked  her  nothing  more. 

He  was  more  sure  than  ever  that  a  captive  he  was, 
kept  in  kindly  and  honorable  durance,  like  James  of 
Scotland  in  the  Green  Tower. 

Whilst  he  was  lying  awake,  a  grand  and  startling 
idea  dawned  on  him :  What  if  he  were  to  go  out  and 
see  the  world  for  himself?  This  notion  has  fascinated 
many  a  child  before  him.  Did  not  St.  Teresa  of  Spain, 
when  she  was  a  little  thing,  toddle  out  with  a  tiny 
brother  over  the  brown  sierras  ?  So  absolutely  now 
did  this  enterprise  dazzle  and  conquer  the  little  Earl 
that  before  night  was  half-way  over  he  had  persuaded 
himself  that  a  prisoner  he  was,  and  that  his  stolen 
kingdom  he  would  go  and  find,  just  as  the  knights  in 
his  favorite  tales  sallied  forth  to  seek  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  passion  for  adventure,  for  escape,  for  finding  out 
the  truth,  grew  so  strong  on  him  that  at  the  first  flush 
of  daybreak  he  slid  out  of  bed  and  resolved  that  go 
alone  he  would.  He  longed  to  take  Ralph,  but  he 
feared  it  would  not  be  right:  who  knew  what  perils  or 
pains  awaited  him? — and  to  make  the  dog  sharer  in 
them  seemed  selfish.  So  he  threw  a  glove  of  his  own 
for  Ralph  to  guard,  bade  him  be  still,  and  set  about 
his  own  flight. 

He  made  a  sad  bungle  of  dressing  himself,  for  he 
had  never  clothed  himself  in  his  life;  but  at  last  he 
got  the  things  on  somehow,  and  most  of  them  hind- 
part-before.     But  he  did  it  all  without  awaking  Deb- 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  257 

orah,  and,  taking  his  sailor-hat,  he  managed  to  drop 
out  of  the  window  on  to  the  sward  below  without  any- 
one being  aware. 

It  was  quite  early  day ;  the  sky  was  red,  the  shadows 
and  the  mists  were  still  there,  the  birds  were  piping 
good-morrow  to  each  other. 

"  How  lovely  it  is !"  he  thought.  "  Oh,  why  doesn't 
everybody  get  up  at  sunrise  ?" 

He  knew,  however,  that  if  he  wanted  to  see  the 
world  by  himself  he  must  not  tarry  there  and  think 
about  the  dawn.  So  off  he  set,  as  fast  as  his  not  very 
strong  legs  could  carry  him,  and  he  got  down  to  the 
shore. 

The  fog  was  on  the  sea  and  screened  it  from  his 
sight,  and  there  was  no  one  on  the  beach  except  a  boy 
getting  nets  ready  in  an  old  boat.  To  the  boy  ran 
Bertie,  and  held  to  him  two  half-crowns.  "  Will  you 
row  me  to  Bonchurch  for  that?"  he  asked. 

The  boy  grinned.  "For  sure,  little  master;  and 
Pd  like  to  row  a  dozen  at  the  price." 

Into  the  boat  jumped  the  little  Earl,  with  all  the 
feverish  agility  given  to  prisoners,  who  are  escaping, 
by  their  freed  instincts.  It  was  a  very  old,  dirty  boat, 
and  soiled  his  pretty  white  clothes  terribly,  but  he  had 
no  eyes  for  that,  he  so  enjoyed  that  delicious  sense  of 
being  all  alone  and  doing  just  as  he  liked.  The  boy 
was  a  big  boy  and  strong,  and  rowed  with  a  will ;  and 
the  old  tub  went  jumping  and  bobbing  and  splashing 
through  the  rather  heavy  swell.  The  gig  of  his  yacht 
was  a  smart,  long  boat,  beautifully  clean,  and  with 
rowers  all  dressed  in  red  caps  and  white  jerseys ;  but 
the  little  Earl  had  never  enjoyed  rowing  in  that  half 
r  22* 


258  ^^^  LITTLE  EARL. 

SO  much.  Tliere  had  been  always  somebody  to  look 
after  him  and  say,  "  Don't  lean  over  the  side,"  or, 
"  Mind  the  water  does  not  splash  you,"  or,  "  Take 
care !"  Oh,  that  tiresome  "  Take  care  !"  It  makes  a 
boy  want  to  jump  head-foremost  into  the  sea,  or  fling 
himself  head-downwards  from  the  nearest  apple-tree ! 
I  know  you  have  felt  so  yourself  twenty  times  a  week, 
though  I  do  not  tell  you  that  you  were  right. 

Nothing  is  prettier  than  the  UuderclifF  as  you  look 
up  at  it  from  the  sea, — a  tangle  of  myrtle  and  laurel 
and  beech  and  birch  coming  down  to  the  very  shore, 
all  as  Nature  made  it.  Bertie,  as  the  boat  wabbled 
along  like  a  fat  old  duck,  looked  up  at  it  and  was  en- 
chanted, and  then  he  looked  at  the  white  wall  of  mist 
on  the  waters,  and  was  enchanted  too.  It  was  like 
Wonderland.  His  dreams  were  broken  by  the  fisher- 
lad's  voice : 

"  I'll  have  to  put  you  ashore  at  the  creek,  little  mas- 
ter, and  get  back,  or  daddy  '11  give  me  a  hiding." 

"  Who  is  '  daddy'  ?" 

"  Father,"  said  the  boy.  "  He'll  lick  me,  for  the 
tub's  his'n." 

Bertie  was  perplexed.  He  had  heard  of  bears  being 
licked  into  shape  by  their  fathers  and  mothers,  but  this 
boy,  though  rough  and  rather  shapeless,  looked  too  old 
for  such  treatment. 

"  You  were  a  wicked  boy  to  use  the  boat,  then,"  he 
said,  with  great  severity. 

The  lad  only  grinned. 

"  Little  master,  you  tipped  me  a  crown." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  tempt  you  to  do  wrong,"  said 
Bertie,  very  seriously  still ;   and  then  he  colored,  for 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  259 

was  he  very  sure  that  he  was  not  doing  wrong  him- 
self? 

The  old  boat  was  grinding  on  the  shingle  then,  and 
the  rower  of  it  was  putting  him  ashore  at  a  little  creek 
that  was  wooded  and  pretty,  and  up  which  the  sea  ran 
at  high  tide ;  there  was  a  little  cottage  at  the  head  ;  f 
it.  I  have  heard  that  this  wood-glen  used  to  be  in  the 
old  time  a  very  famous  place  for  smugglers,  and  it  is 
still  solitary  and  romantic,  or  at  least  was  so  still 
when  the  little  Earl  was  set  down  there.  "Where 
am  I  ?"  he  asked  the  boy.  But  the  wicked  boy 
only  grinned,  and  began  to  wabble  back  through  the 
water  as  fast  as  his  long  slashing  strokes  could  carry 
him.  The  little  Earl  felt  rather  foolish  and  rather 
helpless. 

He  was  not  far  on  his  way  towards  seeing  the  world, 
and  he  began  to  wish  for  some  breakfast.  There  was 
smoke  going  out  of  a  chimney  of  the  cottage,  and  the 
door  of  it  stood  open,  but  he  was  afraid  the  people  there 
might  stop  him  if  he  asked  for  anything,  and,  besides, 
the  path  up  to  it  through  the  glen  looked  rocky  and 
thorny  and  impassable,  so  he  kept  along  by  the  beach, 
finding  it  heavy  walking,  for  there  were  more  stones 
than  sands,  and  the  beach  was  strewn  with  rocks,  large 
and  small,  and  stiff  prickly  furze.  But  he  had  the  sea 
beside  him  and  the  world  before  him,  and  he  walked 
on  bravely,  and  in  a  little  while  he  came  into  Bon- 
church.  It  was  very  early  yet,  and  Bonchurch  was 
asleep,  and  most  of  its  snug  thatched  houses,  hidden 
away  in  their  gardens  and  fuchsia  hedges,  were  shut 
up  snugly ;  the  tall  trees  of  its  one  street  made  a  deep 
shadow  in  it,  and  the  broad  placid  water  of  its  great 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  261 

come,  you  are  j  and  your  pa  and  your  ma  can  pay  for 
it." 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  Bertie,  getting  very  red ;  and, 
fearing  lest  his  longing  for  the  meal  should  overcome 
his  honor,  he  stumbled  out  of  the  baking-house  door 
and  ran  up  the  tree-shadowed  road  faster  than  ever  he 
had  run  in  his  life. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  plenty  of  money  of  his  own ; 
they  all  said  so  ;  but  he  never  knew  well  where  it  was, 
or  what  it  meant ;  and,  besides,  he  intended  never  to 
go  back  to  his  grandmother  and  Deborah  and  Ralph 
and  Royal  any  more,  till  he  had  found  out  the  truth 
and  seen  his  kingdom. 

So  he  ran  on  through  Bonchurch  and  out  of  it,  leav- 
ing its  pleasant  green  shade  with  a  little  sigh,  half  of 
impatience,  half  of  hunger.  He  did  not  go  on  by  the 
sea,  for  he  knew  by  hearsay  that  this  way  would  take 
him  to  Ventnor,  and  he  was  afraid  people  in  a  town 
would  know  him  and  stop  him ;  so  he  set  forth  inland, 
where  the  deep  lanes  delve  through  the  grassy  downs ; 
and  here,  sitting  on  a  stile,  the  little  Earl  saw  the 
ploughboy  eating  something  white  and  round  and  big 
that  he  himself  had  never  seen  before. 

"  It  must  be  something  very  delicious  to  make  him 
enjoy  it  so  much,"  thought  the  little  Earl,  and  then 
curiosity  entered  so  into  him,  and  he  longed  so  much 
to  taste  this  wonderful  unknown  thing,  that  he  went 
up  to  the  boy  and  said  to  him, — 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know  what  you 
are  eating  ?" 

The  ploughboy  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  For  certain,  little  zurr,"  he  said,  with  a  burr  and 


262  ^^^  LITTLE  EARL. 

a  drawl  in  his  speech,  and  he  gave  the  thing  to  Bertie, 
which  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  peeled  turnip. 

The  little  Earl  looked  at  it  doubtfully,  for  he  did 
not  much  fancy  what  the  other  had  handled  with 
his  big  brown  hands  and  bitten  with  his  big  yellow 
teeth.  But  then,  to  enjoy  anything  as  much  as  that 
other  had  enjoyed  it,  and  to  taste  something  quite 
unknown  ! — this  counterbalanced  his  disgust  and  over- 
ruled his  delicacy.  One  side  of  the  great  white  thing 
was  unbitten;  he  took  an  eager  tremulous  little  bite 
out  of  that. 

"  But,  oh  !"  he  cried  in  dismay  as  he  tasted,  "  it  has 
no  taste  at  all,  and  what  there  is  is  nasty  !" 

"  Turnips  is  main  good,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  the  little  Earl,  with  intense  horror ; 
and  he  threw  the  turnip  down  amongst  the  grass,  and 
went  away  sorely  puzzled. 

"  Little  master,"  roared  Hodge  after  him,  "  I'll  bet 
as  you  aren't  hungry." 

That  was  it,  of  course. 

The  little  Earl  was  not  really  hungry, — never  had 
been  really  hungry  in  all  his  life.  But  this  explana- 
tion of  natural  philosophy  did  not  occur  to  him,  not 
even  when  the  boy  hallooed  it  after  him.  He  only  said 
to  himself,  "How  can  that  boy  eat  that  filthy  thing? 
and  he  really  did  look  as  if  he  liked  it  so !" 

Presently,  after  trotting  a  mile  or  so,  he  passed  a 
little  shop  set  all  by  itself  at  the  end  of  a  lane, — sure.y 
the  tiniest,  loneliest  shop  in  Great  Britain.  But  a 
cheery-looking  old  woman  kept  it,  and  he  saw  it  had 
bread  in  it,  as  well  as  many  other  stuffs,  and  tin  canis- 
ters that  were  to  him  incomprehensible. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  263 

"  If  you  please,"  he  said,  rather  timidly,  offering  the 
gold  anchor  off  the  ribbon  of  his  hat,  "  I  have  lost  my 
money,  and  could  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  any 
breakfast  for  this  ?" 

The  old  woman  smelt  the  anchor,  bit  it,  twinkled 
her  eyes,  and  then  drew  a  long  face,  "  It  ain't  worth 
tuppence,  master,"  she  said  ;  "  but  ye're  mighty  small 
to  be  out  by  yourself,  and  puny  like :  I  don't  say  as 
how  I  won't  feed  yer." 

"Thanks,"  said  Bertie,  who  did  not  know  at  all 
what  his  anchor  was  worth. 

"  Come  in  out  o'  dust,"  said  the  old  woman,  smartly, 
and  then  she  bustled  about  and  set  him  down  in  her 
little  den  to  milk,  bread,  and  some  cold  bacon. 

That  he  had  no  appetite  was  the  despair  of  his  people 
and  physician  at  home,  and  cod-liver  oil,  steel,  quinine, 
and  all  manner  of  nastiness  had  been  administered  to 
provoke  hunger  in  him,  with  no  effect :  by  this  time, 
however,  he  had  almost  as  much  hunger  as  the  boy  who 
had  munched  the  turnip. 

Nothing  had  ever  tasted  to  him  half  so  good  in  his 
life. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  curiously.  "You's  a 
runaway,"  she  thought;  "but  I'll  not  raise  the 
cry  after  ye,  or  they'll  come  spying  about  this  bit  o' 
gold." 

She  said  to  herself  that  the  child  would  come  to  no 
harm,  and  when  a  while  had  gone  by  she  would  step 
over  to  Ryde  or  Newport  and  get  a  guinea  on  the 
brooch. 

Her  little  general  shop  was  not  a  very  prosperous 
business,  though  useful  to  the  field-folk ;  and  sanding 


264  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

her  sugar,  and  putting  clay  in  her  mustard,  and  adding 
melted  fat  to  her  butter,  had  not  strengthened  her  moral 
principles. 

As  Bertie  was  eating,  there  came  a  very  thin,  scantily- 
clad,  miserable-looking  woman,  who  held  out  a  half- 
penny. "  A  sup  o'  milk  for  Susy,  missus,"  she  said,  in 
a  very  pitiful  faint  voice. 

"How  be  Sue?"  asked  the  mistress  of  the  shop. 
The  woman  shook  her  head  with  tears  running  down 
her  hollow  cheeks. 

"  My  boy  he's  gone  in  spinney,"  she  murmured,  "  to 
try  and  catch  summat,  if  he  can :  will  you  change  it, 
missus,  if  he  git  a  good  bird  ?" 

The  old  woman  winked,  frowned,  and  glanced  at 
Bertie. 

"  Birds  aren't  good  eatin'  on  fust  of  July,"  she  ob- 
served, as  she  handed  the  milk.  The  woman  paid  the 
halfpenny  and  hurried  away  with  the  milk. 

"I  think  that  woman  is  very  poor,"  said  Bertie, 
questioningly  and  solemnly. 

The  old  dame  chuckled. 

"  No  doubts  o'  that,  master." 

"  Then  you  are  cruel  to  take  her  money :  you  should 
have  given  her  the  milk." 

"  Ho,  ho,  little  sir !  be  you  a  parson  in  a  gownd  ? 
I'm  mappen  poor  as  she,  and  she  hiv  desarved  all  she 
gits,  for  her  man  he  were  a  poacher,  and  he  died  in  jail 
last  Jannivery." 

"A  poacher!"  said  Bertie,  with  the  natural  in- 
stinctive horror  of  a  landed  gentleman.  "  And  her 
son  was  going  to  snare  a  bird  I"  he  cried,  with  light 
breaking  in  on  him  ;  "  and  you  would  give  them  things 


THE  LITTLE   EARL  265 

in  exchange  for  the  bird  !     Oh,  what  a  very  cruel, 
what  a  very  wicked  woman  you  are !" 

For  an  answer  she  shied  at  him  a  round  wooden 
trencher,  which  missed  its  aim  and  strucli  a  basket  of 
eggs  and  smashed  them,  and  one  of  the  panes  of  her 
shop- window  as  well. 

Bertie  got  up  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  door, 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"  When  I  see  a  magistrate,  I  shall  tell  him  about 
you,"  he  said,  solemnly  :  "  you  tempt  poor  people :  that 
is  very  dreadful." 

The  enraged  woman,  in  her  outraged  feelings,  threw 
a  pail  of  dirty  water  after  him,  some  of  which  splashed 
him  and  completed  the  disfigurement  of  his  white  suit. 
He  looked  up  and  down  to  see  for  the  poor  woman  with 
the  milk,  that  he  might  console  her  poverty  and  open 
her  eyes  to  her  sins;  but  she  was  not  within  sight;  and 
Bertie  reflected  that  if  he  stopped  to  correct  other 
people's  errors  he  should  never  see  the  world  and  find 
his  kingdom. 

He  had  eaten  a  hearty  meal,  and  his  spirits  rose  and 
his  heart  was  full  of  hope  and  valor;  and  if  he  had 
only  had  Ralph  with  him,  he  would  have  been  quite 
happy. 

So  he  went  away  valorously  across  a  broad  rolling 
down,  and  about  half  a  mile  farther  on  he  came  to  a 
little  shed.  In  the  shed  were  a  fire,  and  a  man,  and  a 
pig ;  in  the  fire  was  an  iron,  and  the  pig  was  tied  by  a 
rope  to  a  ring.  Bertie  saw  the  man  take  the  red-hot 
iron  and  go  up  to  the  pig :  Bertie's  face  grew  blanched 
with  horror. 

"Stop,  stop!  what  are  you  doing  to  the  pig?"  he 
Mo  23 


266  '^^^  LITTLE  EARL. 

screamed,  as  he  ran  in  to  the  man,  who  looked  up  and 
stared. 

"I  be  branding  the  pig.  Get  out,  or  I'll  brand 
you !"  he  cried.  Bertie  held  his  ground ;  his  eyes 
were  flashing. 

"  You  wicked,  wicked  man  !  Do  you  not  know  that 
poor  pig  was  made  by  God  ?" 

"Dunno,"  said  the  wretch,  with  a  grin.  "  She'll  be 
eat  by  men,  come  Candlemas !  I  be  marking  of  her, 
'cos  I'll  turn  her  out  on  the  downs  with  t'other.  Git 
out,  youngster !  you've  no  call  here." 

Bertie  planted  himself  firmly  on  his  feet,  and  doubled 
his  little  fists. 

"  I  will  not  see  you  do  such  a  cruelty  to  a  poor  dumb 
thing,"  he  said,  while  he  grew  white  as  death,  "  I  will 
not." 

The  man  scowled  and  yet  grinned. 

"Will  you  beat  me,  little  Hop-o'-my-thumb?" 

Bertie  put  himself  before  the  poor  black  pig,  who 
was  squealing  from  mere  fright  and  the  scorch  of  the 
fire. 

"  You  shall  not  get  the  pig  without  killing  me  first. 
You  are  a  cruel  man." 

The  man  grew  angry. 

"  Tell  you  what,  youngster :  I've  a  mind  to  try  the 
jumping-irons  on  you  for  your  impudence.  You  look 
like  a  drowned  white  kitten.  Clear  ofi*,  if  you  don't 
want  to  taste  something  right  red  hot." 

Bertie's  whole  body  grew  sick,  but  he  did  not  move 
and  he  did  not  quail. 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  it  to  me  than  to  this  poor 
thing,"  he  answered. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  267 

"I'm  blowed!"  said  the  man,  relaxing  his  wrath 
from  sheer  amazement.  "  Well,  you're  a  good  plucked 
one,  you  are." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Bertie,  a  little 
liaughtily ;  "  but  you  shall  not  hurt  the  pig." 

"  Darn  me !"  yelled  the  man  ;  "  I'll  burn  you,  sure 
as  you  live,  if  you  don't  kneel  on  your  bare  bones  and 
beg  my  pardon." 

"  I  will  not  do  that." 

"  You  won't  beg  my  pardon  for  cheeking  me  ?" 

"  No :  you  are  a  wicked  man." 

Bertie's  eyes  closed  ;  he  grew  faint ;  he  fully  believed 
that  in  another  instant  he  would  feel  the  hissing  fire 
of  the  brand.     But  he  did  not  yield. 

The  man's  hand  dropped  to  his  side. 

"  You  are  a  plucked  one,"  he  said,  once  more. 
"  Lord,  child,  it  was  a  joke.  You're  such  a  rare  game 
un,  to  humor  you,  there,  I'll  let  the  crittur  go  without 
marking  her.  But  you're  a  rare  little  fool,  if  you're 
not  an  angel  down  from  on  high." 

Bertie's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  held  his  hand  out 
royally  to  be  kissed,  as  he  was  used  to  do  at  Avillion. 

The  big,  black-looking  man  crushed  it  in  his  own 
brown  paw. 

"  My !  you're  a  game  un !"  he  muttered,  with 
wonder  and  awe. 

"  And  you  will  never,  never,  never  burn  pigs  any 
more?"  said  Bertie,  searching  his  face  with  his  own 
serious  large  eyes. 

"I'll  ne'er  brand  this  un,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
shamefaced  laugh.  "Lord,  little  sir,  you're  the  first 
as  ever  got  as  much  as  that  out  of  me !" 


268  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

"  But  you  never  must  do  it,"  said  Bertie,  solemnly. 
"  It  is  wicked  of  you,  and  God  is  angry ;  and  it  is 
very  mean  for  you,  such  a  big  man  and  so  strong, 
to  hurt  a  defenceless  dumb  thing.  You  must  never 
do  it." 

"  What  is  your  name,  little  master  ?"  said  the  big 
man,  humbly. 

"  They  call  me  Avillion." 

"  William  ?  Then  I'll  say  William  all  the  days  of 
my  life  at  my  prayers  o'  Sundays,"  said  the  man,  with 
some  emotion,  and  murmured  to  himself,  "  Such  a  game 
un  I  never  seed." 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  Bertie,  gently,  and  then 
he  lifted  his  hat  politely,  and  went  out  of  the  shed 
before  the  man  could  recover  from  his  astonishment. 
When  the  little  Earl  looked  back,  he  saw  the  giant 
pouring  water  on  the  fire,  and  the  pig  was  loose. 

"I  was  afraid,"  thought  Bertie.  "But  he  should 
have  burnt  me  all  up  every  bit :  I  never  would  have 
given  in." 

And  something  seemed  to  say  in  his  ear,  "The 
loveliest  thing  in  all  the  world  is  courage  that  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  mercy ;  and  these  two  together  can 
work  miracles,  like  magicians." 

By  this  time  Bertie,  except  for  a  certain  inalienable 
grace  and  refinement  that  were  in  his  little  face  and 
figure,  had  few  marks  of  a  young  gentleman.  His 
snowy  serge  was  smirched  and  stained  with  black- 
berries ;  his  red  stockings,  from  the  sea-water  and  the 
field-mud,  had  none  of  their  original  color;  his  hat 
had  been  bent  and  crumpled  by  his  fall,  and  his  hair 
was  rough.     Nobody  passing  him  could  have  dreamt 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  269 

that  this  sorry  wanderer  was  a  little  earl.  Neverthe- 
less, when  he  had  been  dressed  in  his  little  court  suit 
and  had  been  taken  to  see  the  queen  once  at  Balmoral, 
he  had  never  been  a  quarter  so  proud  nor  a  tenth  part 
so  happy.  He  longed  to  meet  Cromwell,  and  Richard 
the  Third,  and  Gessler,  and  Nero.  He  began  to  feel 
like  all  the  knights  he  had  ever  read  of,  and  those 
were  many. 

Presently  he  saw  a  little  maiden  weeping.  She  was 
an  ugly  little  maiden,  with  a  shock  head  of  red  hair, 
and  a  wide  mouth,  and  a  brickdust  skin  ;  but  she  was 
crying.  In  his  present  heroic  mood,  he  could  not  pass 
her  by  unconsoled. 

"  Little  girl,  why  do  you  cry  ?"  he  said,  stopping  in 
the  narrow  green  lane. 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  a  sharp  little  eye,  and  her 
face  puckered  up  afresh. 

"  I'se  going  to  schule,  little  master  !" 

"To  school,  do  you  mean?  And  why  does  that 
make  you  cry  ?     Can  you  read  ?" 

"  Naw,"  said  the  maiden,  and  sobbed  loudly. 

"  Then  why  are  you  not  glad  to  go  and  learn  ?"  said 
Bertie,  in  his  superior  wisdom. 

"There's  naebody  to  do  nowt  at  home,"  said  the  red- 
haired  one,  with  a  howl.  "Mother's  abed  sick,  and 
Tarn's  hurt  his  leg,  and  who'll  mind  baby?  He'll 
tumble  the  kittle  o'er  hisself,  I  know  he  will,  and 
he'll  be  scalt  to  death,  '11  baby !" 

"  Dear,  dear !"  said  Bertie,  sympathetically.  "  But 
why  do  you  go  to  school  then  ?" 

"'Cos  I  isn't  thirteen,"  sobbed  the  shock-haired 
nymph :  "  I'se  only  ten.  And  daddy  was  had  up  las 
23* 


270  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

week  and  pit  in  prison  'cos  he  kept  me  at  home.  And 
if  I  ain't  at  home,  who'll  mind  baby,  and  who'll  bile 

the  taters,  and  who'll ?     Oh,  how  I  wish  I  was 

thirteen !" 

Bertie  did  not  understand.  He  had  never  heard  of 
the  School  Board. 

"  What  does  your  father  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Works  i'  brick-field.  All  on  us  work  i'  brick- 
field. I  can  take  baby  to  brick-field;  he  sit  in  the 
clay  beautiful,  but  they  awn't  let  me  take  him  to 
schule,  and  he'll  be  scalt,  I  know  he'll  be  scalt.  He'll 
allers  get  a-nigh  the  kittle  if  he  can." 

"  But  it  is  very  shocking  not  to  know  how  to  read," 
said  the  little  Earl,  very  gravely.  "  You  should  have 
learned  that  as  soon  as  you  could  speak.     I  did." 

"Maybe  yours  aren't  brick-field  folk,"  said  the  little 
girl,  stung  by  her  agony  to  sarcasm.  "  I've  allers  had 
a  baby  to  mind,  ever  since  I  toddled ;  first  'twas  Tam, 
and  then  'twas  Dick,  and  now  'tis  this  un.  I  dunno 
want  to  read ;  awn't  make  bricks  a-readin'." 

"Oh,  but  you  will  learn  such  beautiful  things,"  said 
Bertie.  "  I  do  think,  you  know,  that  you  ought  to  go 
to  school." 

"So  the  gemman  said  as  pit  dad  in  th'  lock-up,"  said 
the  recalcitrant  one,  doggedly.  "  Butiful  things  aren't 
o'  much  count,  sir,  when  one's  belly's  empty.  I  oodn't 
go  to  the  blackguds  now,  if  'tweren't  as  poor  dad  says 
as  how  I  must,  'cos  they  lock  him  up." 

"  It  seems  very  hard  to  lock  him  up,"  said  Bertie, 
with  increasing  sympathy;  "and  I  think  you  ought  to 
obey  him  and  go.  I  will  see  if  I  can  find  the  baby. 
Where  do  you  live  ?" 


THE  LITTLE  EARL  271 

She  pointed  vaguely  over  the  copses  and  pastures : 
"  Go  on  a  mile,  and  you'll  see  Jim  Bracken's  cottage  ; 
but,  Lord  love  you  !  you^W  ne'er  manage  baby." 

"I  will  try,"  said  Bertie,  sweetly.  His  fancy  as  well 
as  his  charity  was  stirred ;  for  he  had  never,  that  he 
knew  of,  seen  a  baby.  "  But  indeed  you  should  go  to 
school." 

"  Fm  a-going,"  said  the  groaning  and  blowsy  hero- 
ine with  a  last  sob,  and  then  she  set  off  running  as 
quickly  as  a  pair  of  her  father's  boots,  ten  times  too 
large,  allowed  her,  her  slate  and  her  books  making  a 
loud  clatter  as  she  struggled  on  her  way. 

He  was  by  this  time  very  tired,  for  he  was  not  used 
to  such  long  walks ;  but  curiosity  and  compassion  put 
fresh  spirit  into  his  heart,  and  his  small  legs  pegged 
valorously  over  the  rough  ground,  the  red  stockings 
and  the  silver  buckles  becoming  by  this  time  much 
begrimed  with  mud. 

He  knocked  at  one  cottage  door,  and  saw  only  a 
very  cross  old  woman,  who  flourished  a  broom  at  him. 

"  No,  it  bean't  Jim  Bracken's.  Get  you  gone ! — yua 
look  like  a  runaway." 

Now,  a  runaway  he  was ;  and,  as  truth  when  we  are 
guilty  is  always  even  as  a  two-edged  sword,  Bertie 
colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  bolted  off  as 
fast  as  he  could  to  the  only  other  cottage  visible,  be- 
yond a  few  acres  of  mangel-wurzel  and  all  the  lucern 
family,  which  the  little  Earl  fancied  were  shamrocks. 
For  he  was  far  on  in  Euclid,  could  speak  German  well, 
and  could  spell  through  Tacitus  fairly,  but  about  the 
flowers  of  the  field  and  the  grasses  no  one  had  ever 
thought  it  worth  while  to  tell  him  anything  at  all. 


272  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

Indeed,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not  think  his  tutors 
knew  anything  about  them  themselves. 

This  other  cottage  was  so  low,  so  covered  up  in  its 
broken  thatch,  which  in  turn  was  covered  with  lichen, 
and  was  so  tumble-down  and  sorrowful-looking,  that 
Bertie  thought  it  was  a  ruined  cow-shed.  However, 
it  stood  where  the  school-girl  had  pointed :  so  he  took 
his  courage  in  both  hands,  as  we  say  in  French,  and 
advanced  to  it.  The  rickety  door  stood  open,  and  he 
saw  a  low  miserable  bed  with  a  miserable  woman  lying 
on  it ;  a  shock-headed  boy  sprawled  on  the  floor,  an- 
other crouched  before  a  fire  of  brambles  and  sods,  and 
between  the  legs  of  this  last  boy  was  a  strange,  uncouth, 
shapeless  object,  which,  but  for  the  fact  that  it  was 
crying  loudly,  never  would  have  appeared  to  his  as- 
tonished eyes  as  the  baby  for  whom  was  prophesied  a 
tragic  and  early  end  by  the  kettle.  The  boy  who  had 
this  object  in  charge  stared  with  two  little  round  eyes. 

"  Mamsey,  there's  a  young  gemman,"  he  said,  in  an 
awed  voice. 

Bertie  took  off  his  hat,  and  went  into  the  room  with 
his  prettiest  grace. 

"  If  you  please,  are  you  very  ill  ?"  he  said,  in  his 
little  soft  voice,  to  the  woman  in  bed.  "  I  met — I 
met — a  little  girl  who  was  so  anxious  about  the  baby, 
and  I  said  I  would  come  and  see  if  I  could  be  of  any 


The  woman  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and  looked 
at  him  with  eager,  haggard  eyes. 

"  Lord,  little  sir,  there's  naught  to  be  done  for  us  ; 
— leastways,  unless  you  had  a  shillin'  or  two " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  murmured  Bertie,  feeling  very 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  273 

unlike  a  little  earl  in  that  moment.  The  woman  gave 
a  weary  angry  sigh  and  sank  back  indifferent. 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  ?"  said  Bertie,  wistfully. 

"  By  golly !"  said  the  boy  on  the  floor,  "  unless  you've 
got  a  few  coppers,  little  master " 

"  Coppers  ?"  repeated  the  little  Earl. 

"  Pence,"  said  the  boy,  shortly ;  then  the  baby  began 
to  howl,  and  the  boy  shook  it. 

"  Do  please  not  make  it  scream  so,"  said  Bertie. 
"  That  is  what  you  call  the  baby,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Iss,"  said  the  boy  Dick,  sullenly.  "  This  here's 
baby,  cuss  him  !  and  what  bisness  be  he  of  yourn  ?" 

For  interference  without  coppers  to  follow  was  a 
barren  intruder  that  he  was  disposed  to  resent. 

"  I  thought  I  could  amuse  him,"  said  Bertie,  timidly. 
"  I  told  your  sister  I  would." 

Dick  roared  into  loud  guffaws. 

"  Baby'd  kick  you  into  middle  o'  next  week,  you 
poor  little  puny  spindle-shanks!"  said  this  rude  boy; 
and  Bertie  felt  that  he  was  very  rude,  though  he  had 
no  idea  what  was  meant  by  spindle-shanks. 

The  other  boy,  who  was  lying  on  his  stomach, — a 
sadly  empty  little  stomach, — here  reversed  his  position 
and  stared  up  at  Bertie. 

"  I  think  you're  a  kind  little  gemman,"  he  said, 
"  and  Dick's  cross  'cos  he's  broke  his  legs,  and  we've 
had  no  vittles  since  yesternoon,  and  only  a  sup  o'  tea 
Peg  made  afore  she  went,  and  mother's  main  bad,  that 
she  be." 

And  tears  rolled  down  this  gentler  little  lad's  dirty 
cheeks. 

"  Oh,  dear,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Bertie,  with  a 


274  THE   LITTLE  EARL. 

sigh  :  if  he  had  only  had  the  money  and  the  watch 
that  had  fallen  into  the  sea !  He  looked  round  hira 
and  felt  very  sick  ;  it  was  all  so  dirty,  so  dirty  ! — and 
he  had  never  seen  dirt  before;  and  the  place  smelt 
very  close  and  sour,  and  the  children's  clothes  were 
mere  rags,  and  the  woman  was  all  skin  and  bone,  on 
her  wretched  straw  bed ;  and  the  unhappy  baby  was 
screaming  loudly  enough  to  be  heard  right  across  the 
sea  to  the  French  coast. 

"  Baby,  poor  baby,  don't  cry  so  !"  said  Bertie,  very 
softly,  and  he  dangled  the  ends  of  his  red  sash  before 
its  tearful  eyes,  and  shook  them  up  and  down  :  the  at- 
tention of  the  baby  was  arrested,  it  ceased  to  howl,  and 
put  out  its  hands,  and  began  to  laugh  instead  !  Bertie 
was  very  proud  of  his  success,  and  even  the  sullen  Dick 
muttered,  "  Well,  I  never  !" 

The  little  Earl  undid  his  scarf  and  let  the  baby  pull 
it  towards  itself.     Dick's  eyes  twinkled  greedily. 

"  Master,  that'd  sell  for  summat !" 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  sell  it,"  said  the  little  Earl, 
eagerly.  "  It  is  to  amuse  the  poor  baby.  And  what 
pretty  big  eyes  he  has  !  how  he  laughs  !" 

"  Your  shoes  'ud  sell,"  muttered  Dick. 

"  Dick !  don't,  Dick  !  that's  begging,"  muttered  Tam. 
Bertie  stared  in  surprise.  To  sell  his  shoes  seemed  as 
odd  as  to  be  asked  to  sell  his  hair  or  his  hands.  The 
woman  opened  her  fading,  glazing  eyes. 

"  They're  honest  boys,  little  sir :  you'll  pardon  of 
'em;  they've  eat  nothing  since  yesternoon,  and  then 
'twas  only  a  carrot  or  two,  and  boys  is  main  hungry." 

"  And  have  you  nothing  ?"  said  Bertie,  aghast  at  the 
misery  in  this  unknown  world. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  275 

"  How'd  we  have  anything  ?"  said  the  sick  woman, 
grimly.  "  They've  locked  up  my  man,  and  Peg's  sent 
to  school  while  we  starve ;  and  nobody  earns  nothin', 
for  Dick's  broke  his  leg,  and  I've  naught  in  ray  breasts 
for  baby " 

"But  would  not  somebody  you  work  for — or  the 
priest — ?"  began  Bertie. 

"  Passon  don't  do  nowt  for  us, — my  man's  a  Meth- 
ody ;  and  at  brick-field  they  don't  mind  us ;  if  we  be 
there,  well  an'  good, — we  work  and  get  paid ;  and  if 
we  isn't  there,  well — some  un  else  is.  That's  all." 
Then  she  sank  back,  gasping. 

Bertie  stood  woe-begone  and  perplexed. 

"  Did  you  say  my  shoes  would  sell  ?"  he  murmured, 
very  miserably,  his  mind  going  back  to  the  history  of 
St.  Martin  and  the  cloak. 

Di<;k  brightened  up  at  once. 

"  Master,  I'll  get  three  shillin'  on  'em,  maybe  more, 
down  in  village  yonder." 

"  You  mus'n't  take  the  little  gemman's  things,"  mur- 
mured the  mother,  feebly ;  but  faintness  was  stealing 
on  her,  and  darkness  closing  over  her  sight. 

"  Three  shillings  !"  said  Bertie,  who  knew  very  little 
of  the  value  of  shillings ;  "  that  seems  very  little !  I 
think  they  cost  sovereigns.  Could  you  get  a  loaf  of 
bread  with  three  shillings  ?" 

"Gu-r-r-r!"  grinned  Dick,  and  Bertie  understood 
that  the  guttural  sound  meant  assent  and  rapture. 

"  But  I  cannot  walk  without  shoes." 

"  "Walk !  yah !  ye'll  walk  better.  We  niver  have  no 
shoes !"  said  Dick. 

«  Don't  you,  rm%.^" 


276  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

"  Golly  !  no !  Ye'll  walk  ten  times  finer ;  ye  won't 
trip,  nor  stumble,  nor  nothin',  and  ye'll  run  as  fast 
again." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  not,"  murmured  Bertie,  and  he  was 
going  to  say  that  he  would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with- 
out shoes,  only  he  remembered  that,  as  these  boys  had 
none,  that  would  not  be  kind.  A  desperate  misery 
came  over  him  at  the  thought  of  being  shoeless,  but 
then  he  reasoned  with  himself,  "  To  give  was  no 
charity  if  it  cost  you  nothing :  did  not  the  saints  strip 
themselves  to  the  uttermost  shred  for  the  poor?" 

He  stooped  and  took  off  his  shoes  with  the  silver 
buckles  on  them,  and  placed  them  hastily  on  the  floor. 

"  Take  them,  if  they  will  get  you  bread,"  he  said, 
with  the  color  mounting  in  his  face. 

Dick  seized  them  with  a  yell  of  joy.  "  Tarnation 
that  I  can't  go  mysel'.  Here,  Tam,  run  quick  and  sell 
'em  to  old  Nan;  and  get  bread,  and  meat,  and  potatoes, 
and  milk  for  baby,  and  Lord  knows  what;  p'raps  a  gill 
of  gin  for  mammy." 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  rob  little  master, 
Dick,"  murmured  little  Tam.  His  brother  hurled  a 
crutch  at  him,  and  Tam  snatched  up  the  pretty  shoes 
and  fled. 

"  My  blazes,  sir,"  said  Dick,  with  rather  a  shame- 
faced look,  "  if  you'd  a  beast  like  a  lot  of  fire  gnawing 
at  your  belly  all  night  long,  yer  wouldn't  stick  at  nowt 
to  get  bread." 

Bertie  only  imperfectly  comprehended.  The  baby, 
tired  of  the  sash,  began  to  cry  again  ;  and  Dick,  grown 
good-natured,  danced  it  up  and  down. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  said  Bertie. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  277 

*  Nigh  on  eight,"  said  Dick. 

"  Dear  me  I"  sighed  the  little  Earl ;  this  rough,  mas- 
terful, coarse-toDgued  boy  seemed  like  a  grown  man  to 
hira. 

"  You  won't  split  on  us  ?"  said  Dick,  sturdily. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Bertie. 

"  Not  tell  anybody  you  give  us  the  shoes :  there'd  be 
a  piece  of  work." 

"  As  if  one  told  when  one  did  any  kindness !"  mur- 
mured Bertie,  with  a  disgust  he  could  not  quite  conceal. 
"  I  mean,  when  one  does  one's  duty." 

"  But  what'll  you  gammon  'em  with  at  home  ? — 
they'll  want  to  know  what  you've  done  with  your 
Bhoes." 

"I  am  not  going  home,"  said  the  little  Earl,  and 
there  was  a  something  in  the  way  he  spoke  that  silenced 
Dick's  tongue, — which  he  would  have  called  his  clap- 
per. 

"What  in  the  world  be  the  little  swell  arter?" 
thought  Dick. 

Bertie  meanwhile,  with  some  awe  and  anxiety,  was 
watching  the  livid  face  of  the  sick  woman :  he  had 
never  seen  illness  or  death,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
she  was  very  ill  indeed. 

"  Are  you  not  anxious  about  your  mother  ?"  he  asked 
of  the  rough  boy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  sulkily,  with  the  water  coming 
in  his  eyes.  "  Dad's  in  the  lock-up :  that's  wuss  still, 
young  sir." 

"  Not  worse  than  death,"  said  Bertie,  solemnly.  "  He 
will  come  back." 

"  Oh,  she'll  come  round  with  a  drop  of  gin  and  a  sup 


278  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

of  broth,"  said  Dick,  confidently.  "  'Tis  all  hunger  and 
frettin',  hers  is." 

"  I  am  glad  I  gave  my  shoes,"  thought  Bertie. 
Then  there  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
hissing  of  the  green  brambles  on  the  fire  and  the  yelps 
of  the  baby. 

"  Maybe,  sir,"  said  Dick,  after  a  little,  "  you'd  put 
the  saucepan  on?  I  can't  move  with  this  here  leg. 
If  you'd  pit  some  water  out  o'  kittle  in  him,  he'll  be 
ready  for  cookin'  when  the  vittles  come." 

"  I  will  do  that,"  said  Bertie,  cheerfully,  and  he  set 
the  saucepan  on  by  lifting  it  with  both  hands :  it  was 
very  black,  and  its  crock  came  off  on  his  knicker- 
bockers. Then,  by  Dick's  directions,  he  found  a  pair 
of  old  wooden  bellows,  and  blew  on  the  sticks  and 
sods ;  but  this  he  managed  so  ill  that  Dick  wriggled 
himself  along  the  floor  closer  to  the  fire  and  did  it 
himself. 

"  You're  a  gaby  !"  he  said  to  his  benefactor. 

«  What  is  that  ?"  said  Bertie. 

But  Dick  felt  that  it  was  more  prudent  not  to  ex- 
plain. 

In  half  an  hour  Tam  burst  into  the  room,  breathless 
and  joyous,  his  scruples  having  disappeared  under  the 
basket  he  bore. 

"  She  gived  me  five  shillin' !"  he  shouted  ;  "  and  I's 
sure  they's  wutli  a  deal  more,  'cos  her  eyes  twinkled 
and  winked,  and  she  shoved  me  a  peg-top  in  !" 

"  Gie  us  o't !"  shrieked  Dick,  in  an  agony  at  being 
bound  to  the  floor  with  all  these  good  things  before  his 
sight. 

Little  Tarn,  who  was  very  loyal,  laid  them  all  out 


THE  LITTLE  EARx..  279 

on  the  ground  before  his  elder :  two  quartern  loaves, 
two  pounds  of  beef,  onions,  potatoes,  a  bit  of  bacon, 
and  a  jug  of  milk. 

Dick  poured  some  milk  into  an  old  tin  mug,  and 
handed  it  roughly  to  Bertie. 

"Feed  the  baby,  will  yer,  whiles  Tarn  and  me 
cooks?" 

The  little  Earl  took  the  can,  and  advanced  to  the 
formidable  bundle  of  rags,  who  was  screaming  like  a 
very  hoarse  raven. 

"  I  think  you  should  attend  to  your  mother  first," 
he  said,  gently,  as  the  baby  made  a  grab  at  the  little 
tin  pot,  the  look  of  which  it  seemed  to  know,  and 
shook  half  the  milk  over  itself. 

"  Poor  mammy  !"  said  Tam,  who  was  gnawing  a  bit 
of  bread ;  and,  with  his  bread  in  one  hand,  he  got  up 
and  put  a  little  gin  and  water  quite  hot  between  his 
mother's  lips.  She  swallowed  it  without  opening  her 
eyes  or  seeming  to  be  conscious,  and  Tam  climbed  down 
from  the  bed  again  with  a  clear  conscience. 

"We'll  gie  her  some  broth,"  he  said,  manfully, 
while  he  and  Dick,  munching  bread  and  raw  bacon, 
tumbled  the  beef  in  a  lump  into  the  saucepan,  drowned 
in  water  with  some  whole  onions,  in  the  common 
fashion  of  cottage-cooking.  The  baby,  meanwhile,  was 
placidly  swallowing  the  milk  that  the  little  Earl  held 
for  it  very  carefully,  and,  when  that  was  done,  accepted 
a  crust  that  he  offered  it  to  suck. 

The  two  boys  were  crouching  before  the  crackling 
fire,  munching  voraciously,  and  watching  the  boiling 
of  the  old  black  pot.  They  had  quite  forgotten  their 
benefactor. 


280  ^^-^5?  LITTLE  EARL. 

"My!  What'll  Peg  say  when  she's  to  home?" 
chuckled  Tain. 

"  She'll  say  that  she'd  ha'  cooked  better,"  growled 
Dick.     "  Golly  !  ain't  the  fat  good  ?" 

Bertie  stood  aloof,  pleased,  and  yet  sorrowful  because 
they  did  not  notice  him. 

Even  the  baby  had  so  completely  centred  its  mind 
in  the  crust  that  it  had  abandoned  all  memory  of  the 
red  scarf. 

Bertie  looked  on  a  little  Avhile,  but  no  one  seemed  to 
remember  him.  The  boys'  eyes  were  glowing  on  the 
saucepan,  and  their  cheeks  w^ere  filled  out  with  food  as 
the  cherubs  in  his  chapel  at  home  were  puffed  out  with 
air  as  they  blew  celestial  trumpets. 

He  went  to  the  door  slowly,  looked  back,  and  then 
retreated  into  the  sunshine. 

"  It  would  be  mean  to  put  them  in  mind  of  me,"  he 
thought,  as  he  withdrew. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  pain  shot  through  him :  a  stone 
had  cut  his  unshod  foot. 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  how  ever  shall  I  walk  without  any 
shoes  or  boots !"  he  thought,  miserably ;  and  he  was 
very  nearly  bursting  out  crying. 

On  the  edge  of  these  fields  was  a  wood, — a  low, 
dark,  rolling  wood, — which  looked  to  the  little  Earl, 
who  missed  his  own  forests,  inviting  and  cool  and 
sweet.  By  this  time  it  was  getting  towards  noon,  and 
the  sun  was  hot,  and  he  felt  thirsty  and  very  tired. 
He  was  sad,  too :  he  was  glad  to  have  satisfied  those 
poor  hungry  children,  but  their  indifference  to  him 
when  they  were  satisfied  was  chilling  and  melancholy. 

"  But  then  we  ought  not  to  do  a  kindness  that  we 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  281 

may  be  thanked,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It  is  a  proper 
punishment  to  me,  because  I  wished  to  be  thanked, 
which  was  mean." 

So  he  settled,  as  he  usually  did,  that  it  was  all  his 
own  fault. 

Happily^  for  him,  the  ground  was  soft  with  summer 
dust,  and  so  he  managed  to  get  along  the  little  path 
that  ran  from  the  cottage  through  the  lucern-fields, 
and  from  there  the  path  became  grass,  which  was  still 
less  trying  to  his  little  red  stockings. 

Yet  he  was  anxious  and  troubled ;  he  felt  heavily 
weighted  for  his  battle  with  the  world  without  any 
shoes  on,  and  he  felt  he  must  look  ridiculous.  For  the 
first  time,  St.  Martin  did  not  seem  to  him  so  very 
much  of  a  hero,  because  St.  Martin's  gift  was  only  a 
cloak.  Besides,  without  his  sash,  the  band  of  his 
knickerbockers  could  be  seen ;  and  he  was  afraid  this 
was  indecent. 

Nevertheless,  he  went  on  bravely,  if  lamely.  Believe 
me,  nothing  sets  the  world  more  straight  than  thinking 
that  what  is  awry  in  it  is  one's  self. 

The  wood,  which  was  a  well-known  spinney  famous 
for  pheasants,  was  reached  before  very  long,  though 
with  painful  effort.  It  was  chiefly  composed  of  old 
hawthorn-trees  and  blackthorn,  with  here  and  there  a 
larch  or  holly.  The  undergrowth  was  thick,  and  the 
sunbeams  were  playing  at  bo-peep  with  the  shadows. 
Far  away  over  the  fields  and  thorns  was  a  glimmer  of 
blue  water,  and  close  around  were  all  manner  of  ferns, 
of  foxgloves,  of  grasses,  of  boughs.  The  tired  little 
Earl  sank  downward  under  one  of  the  old  thorns  with 
feet  that  bled.  A  wasp  had  stung  him,  too,  through 
24* 


282  ^^^  LITTLE  EARL. 

his  stocking,  and  the  stung  place  was  smarting  furiously. 
^'  But  how  much  more  Christ  and  the  saints  suffered  !" 
thought  Bertie,  seriously  and  piously,  without  the 
smallest  touch  of  vanity. 

Lying  on  the  moss  under  all  that  greenery,  he  felt 
refreshed  and  soothed,  although  the  foot  the  wasp  had 
stung  throbbed  a  good  deal. 

There  were  all  sorts  of  pretty  things  to  see:  the 
pheasants,  who  were  lords  of  the  manor  till  October 
came  round,  did  not  mind  him  in  the  least,  and  swept 
smoothly  by  with  their  long  tails  like  court  mantles 
sweeping  the  grass.  Blackbirds,  those  cheeriest  of  all 
birds,  pecked  at  worms  and  grubs  quite  near  him. 
Chaffinches  were  looking  for  hairs  under  the  brambles 
to  make  their  second  summer  nest  with.  Any  hairs 
serve  their  purpose, — cows',  horses',  or  dogs' ;  and  if 
they  get  a  tuft  of  hare-skin  or  rabbit-fur  they  are 
furnished  for  the  year.  A  pair  of  little  white-throats 
were  busy  in  a  low  bush,  gathering  the  catch-weed  that 
grew  thickly  there,  and  a  goldfinch  was  flying  away 
with  a  lock  of  sheep's  wool  in  his  beak.  There  were 
other  charming  creatures,  too :  a  mole  was  hurrying  to 
his  underground  castle,  a  nuthatch  was  at  work  on  a 
rotten  tree-trunk,  and  a  gray,  odd-looking  bird  was 
impaling  a  dead  field-mouse  on  one  of  the  thorn- 
branches.  Bertie  did  not  know  that  this  gentleman 
was  but  the  gray  shrike,  once  used  in  hawking ;  indeed, 
he  did  not  know  the  names  or  habits  of  any  of  the 
birds ;  and  he  lay  still  hidden  in  the  ferns,  and  watched 
them  with  delight  and  mute  amazement.  There  were 
thousands  of  such  pretty  creatures  in  his  own  woods 
and  brakes  at  home,  but  then  he  was  never  alone ;  he 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  283 

was  always  either  walking  with  Father  Philip  or  riding 
with  William,  and  in  neither  case  was  he  allowed  to 
stop  and  loiter  and  lie  in  the  grass,  and  the  sonorous 
voice  of  the  priest  scattered  these  timid  dwellers  in  the 
greenwood  as  surely  as  did  the  tread  of  the  pony's 
hjofs  and  the  barking  of  Ralph. 

"  When  I  am  a  man  I  will  pass  all  ray  life  out  of 
doors,  and  I  will  get  friends  with  all  these  pretty 
things,  and  ask  them  what  they  are  doing,"  he  thought; 
and  he  was  so  entranced  in  this  new  world  hidden  away 
under  the  low  hawthorn  boughs  of  this  spinney  that  he 
quite  forgot  he  had  lost  his  shoes  and  did  not  know 
where  he  would  sleep  when  night  came.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  his  own  existence,  indeed ;  and  this  is  just 
the  happiness  that  comes  to  us  always,  when  we  learn 
to  love  the  winged  and  four-footed  brethren  that 
Nature  has  placed  so  near  us,  and  whom,  alas !  we  so 
shamefully  neglect  when  we  do  not  do  even  worse  and 
persecute  them.  Bertie  was  quite  oblivious  that  he 
was  a  runaway,  who  had  started  with  a  very  fine  idea 
or  finding  out  who  it  was  that  kept  him  in  prison,  and 
giving  him  battle  wherever  he  might  be :  he  was  much 
more  interested  in  longing  to  know  what  the  great  gray 
shrike  was,  and  why  it  hung  up  the  mouse  on  the  thorn 
and  flew  away.  If  you  do  not  know  any  more  than 
he  did,  I  may  tell  you  that  the  shrikes  are  like  your 
father,  and  like  their  game  when  it  has  been  many 
days  in  the  larder.  It  is  one  of  the  few  ignoble  tastes 
in  which  birds  resemble  mankind. 

The  shrike  flew  away  to  look  for  some  more  mice, 
or  frogs,  or  little  snakes,  or  cockroaches,  or  beetles,  for 
he  is  a  very  useful  fellow  indeed  in  the  woods,  though 


284  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

the  keepers  are  usually  silly  and  wicked  enough  to  try 
and  kill  him.  His  home  and  his  young  ones  were 
above  in  the  thicket,  and  he  had  stuck  all  round  their 
nests  insects  of  all  kinds:  still,  he  was  a  provident 
bird,  and  was  of  opinion  that  every  one  should  work 
while  it  is  day. 

When  the  shrike  flew  away  after  a  bumble-bee,  the 
little  Earl  fell  asleep :  what  with  fatigue,  and  excite- 
ment, and  the  heat  of  the  sun,  a  sound,  dreamless 
slumber  fell  upon  him  there  among  the  birds  and  the 
sweet  smell  of  the  May  buds ;  and  the  goldfinch  sang 
to  him,  while  he  slept,  such  a  pretty  song  that  he 
heard  it  though  he  was  so  fast  asleep.  The  goldfinch, 
though,  did  not  sing  for  him  one  bit  in  the  world ;  he 
sang  for  his  wife,  who  was  sitting  among  her  callow 
brood  hidden  away  from  sight  under  the  leaves,  and 
with  no  greater  anxiety  on  her  mind  than  fear  of  a 
possible  weasel  or  rat  gnawing  at  her  nest  from  the 
bottom. 

When  the  little  Earl  awoke,  the  sun  was  not  full 
and  golden  all  about  him  as  it  had  been ;  there  were 
long  shadows  slanting  through  the  spinney,  and  there 
was  a  great  globe  descending  behind  the  downs  of  the 
western  horizon.  It  was  probably  about  six  in  tlie 
evening.  Bertie  could  not  tell,  for,  unluckily  for  him, 
he  had  always  had  a  watch  to  rely  upon,  and  had  never 
been  taught  to  tell  the  hour  from  the  "shepherd's 
hour-glass"  in  the  field-flowers,  or  calculate  the  time 
of  day  from  the  length  of  the  shadows.  Even  now, 
though  night  was  so  nigh,  the  thought  of  where  he 
should  find  a  bed  did  not  occur  to  him,  for  he  was 
absorbed  in  a  little  boy  who  stood  before  him, — a  very 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  285 

miserable  little  black-haired,  brown-cheeked  boy,  who 
was  staring  hard  at  him. 

"  Now,  he,  I  am  sure,  is  as  poor  as  Dick  and  Tarn," 
thought  the  little  Earl,  "and  I  have  nothing  left  to 
give  him." 

The  little  boy  was  endeavoring  to  hide  behind  his 
back  a  bright  bundle  of  ruffled  feathers,  and  in  his 
other  hand  he  held  a  complicated  arrangement  of  twine 
and  twigs  with  a  pendent  noose. 

That  Bertie  did  know  the  look  of,  for  he  had  seen 
his  own  keepers  destroy  such  things  in  his  own  woods, 
and  had  heard  them  swear  when  they  did  so.  So  his 
land-owner's  instincts  awoke  in  him,  though  the  laud 
was  not  his. 

"  Oh,  little  boy,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  eyes  and 
springing  to  his  feet,  "  what  a  wicked,  wicked  little 
boy  you  are  !     You  have  been  snaring  a  pheasant !" 

The  small  boy,  who  was  about  his  age,  looked 
frightened  and  penitent :  he  saw  his  accuser  was  a  little 
gentleman. 

"  Please,  sir,  don't  tell  on  me,"  he  said,  with  a 
whimper.  "I'll  gie  ye  the  bird  if  ye  won't  tell  on 
me." 

"  I  do  not  want  the  bird,"  said  Bertie,  with  magis- 
terial gravity.  "  You  are  a  wicked  little  boy  to  offer 
it  to  me.  It  is  not  your  own,  and  you  have  killed  it. 
You  are  a  thief  T 

"Please,  sir,"  whimpered  the  little  poacher,  "dad 
alius  tooked  'em  like  this." 

"  Then  he  is  a  thief  too,"  said  Bertie. 

"  He  was  a  good  un  to  me,"  said  the  small  boy,  and 
then  fairly  burst  out  sobbing.     "  He  was  a  good  uji  to 


286  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

me,  and  he's  dead  a  year  come  Lady-day,  and  mother 
she's  main  bad,  and  little  Susie's  got  the  croup,  and 
there's  nowt  to  eat  to  home ;  and  I  hear  Susie  cryin', 
cryin',  cryin',  and  so  I  gae  to  cupboard  where  dad's 
old  tackle  be  kep,  and  I  gits  out  this  here,  and  says  I 
to  myself,  maybe  I'll  git  one  of  them  birds  i'  spinney, 
'cos  they  make  rare  broth,  and  we  had  a  many  on  'em 
when  dad  was  alive,  and  Towser." 

"Who  was  Towser?" 

"He  was  our  lurcher;  keeper  shot  him;  he'd  bring 
of  'em  in  his  mouth  like  a  Chrisen ;  and  gin  ye'll  tell 
on  me,  they'll  clap  me  in  prison  like  they  did  dad,  and 
it's  birch  rods  they'd  give  yer,  and  mother's  nowt  but 
me." 

"  I  do  not  know  who  owns  this  property,"  said  Ber- 
tie, in  his  little  sedate  way,  "so  I  could  not  tell  the 
owner,  and  I  should  not  wish  to  do  it  if  I  could ;  but 
still  it  is  a  very  wicked  thing  to  snare  birds  at  all,  and 
when  they  are  game-birds  it  is  robbery.^' 

"  I  know  as  how  they  makes  it  so,"  demurred  the 
poacher's  son.     "  But  dad  said  as  how " 

"No  one  makes  it  so,"  said  Bertie,  with  a  little 
righteous  anger;  "it  is  so:  the  birds  are  not  yours, 
and  so,  if  you  take  them,  you  are  a  thief." 

The  boy  put  his  thumb  in  his  mouth  and  dangled 
his  dead  pheasant. 

A  discussion  on  the  game-laws  was  beyond  his  pow- 
ers, nor  was  even  Bertie  conscious  of  the  mighty  sub- 
ject he  was  opening,  though  the  instincts  of  the  land- 
owner were  naturally  in  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  so 
shocking  to  find  a  boy  with  such  views  as  this  as  to 
meum  and  iuurriy  that  he  almost  fancied  the  sun  would 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  287 

tall  from  the  sky.  The  sun,  however,  glowed  on,  low 
down  in  the  wood  beyond  a  belt  of  firs,  and  the  green 
downs,  and  the  gray  sea;  and  the  little  sinner  stood 
before  him,  fascinated  by  his  appearance  and  fright- 
ened at  his  words. 

"Do  you  know  who  owns  this  coppice?"  asked  Ber- 
tie ;  and  the  boy  answered  him,  reluctantly, — 

«  Yes :  Sir  Henry." 

"  Then,  what  you  must  do,"  said  Bertie,  "  is  to  go 
directly  with  that  bird  to  Sir  Henry,  and  beg  his  par- 
don, and  ask  him  to  forgive  you.  Go  at  once.  That 
is  what  you  must  do." 

The  boy  opened  eyes  and  mouth  in  amaze. 

"  That  I  won't  never  do,"  he  said,  doggedly :  "  I'd 
be  took  up  to  the  lodge  afore  I'd  open  my  mouth." 

"  Not  if  I  go  with  you,"  said  Bertie. 

"  Be  you  one  of  the  fam'ly,  sir  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Bertie,  and  then  was  silent  in  some  con- 
fusion, for  he  bethought  him  that,  without  any  shoes 
on,  he  might  also  be  arrested  at  the  lodge  gates. 

"I  thought  as  not,  'cos  you're  barefoot,"  said  the 
brown-cheeked  boy,  with  a  little  contempt  supplying 
the  place  of  courage.  "Dunno  who  you  be,  sir,  but 
seems  to  I  as  you've  no  call  to  preach  to  me ;  you  be 
a-trespassin'  too." 

Bertie  colored. 

"  I  am  not  doing  any  harm,"  he  said,  with  dignity ; 
"you  are:  you  have  been  stealing.  If  you  are  not  really 
a  wicked  boy,  you  will  take  the  pheasant  straight  to 
that  gentleman,  and  beg  him  to  forgive  you,  and  I 
dare  say  he  will  give  you  work." 

"  There's  no  work  for  my  dad's  son,"  said  the  little 


288  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

poacher,  half  sadly,  half  sullenly :  "  the  keepers  are  all 
agen  us :  'tis  as  much  as  mother  and  me  and  Susie  can 
do  to  git  a  bit  o'  bread." 

"  What  work  can  you  do  ?" 

"  I  can  make  the  gins,"  said  the  little  sinner,  touch- 
ing the  trap  with  pride.  ''  Mostwhiles,  I  never  corae^ 
out  o'  daylight ;  but  all  the  forenoon  Susie  was  going 
off  her  head,  want  o'  summat  t'  eat." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  Susie  and  you,"  said  the  little  Earl, 
with  sympathy.  "But  indeed,  indeed,  nothing  can  ex- 
cuse a  theft,  or  make  God " 

"  The  keepers !"  yelled  the  boy,  with  a  scream  like 
a  hare's,  and  he  dashed  head-foremost  into  the  bushes, 
casting  on  to  Bertie's  lap  the  gin  and  the  dead  bird. 
Bertie  was  so  surprised  that  he  sat  perfectly  mute  and 
still :  the  little  boy  had  disappeared  as  fast  as  a  rabbit 
bolts  at  sight  of  a  ferret.  Two  grim  big  men  with 
dogs  and  guns  burst  through  the  hawthorn,  and  one 
of  them  seized  the  little  Earl  with  no  gentle  hand. 

"You  little  blackguard!  you'll  smart  for  this,"  yelled 
the  big  man.  "Treadmill  and  birch  rod,  or  I'm  a 
Dutchman." 

Bertie  was  so  surprised,  still,  that  he  was  silent. 
Then,  with  his  little  air  of  innocent  majesty,  he  said, 
simply,  "You  are  mistaken:  I  did  not  kill  the  bird." 

Now,  if  Bertie  had  had  his  usual  nicety  of  apparel, 
or  if  the  keeper  had  not  been  in  a  fuming  fury,  the 
latter  would  have  easily  seen  that  he  had  accused  and 
apprehended  a  little  gentleman.  But  no  one  in  a  vio- 
lent rage  ever  has  much  sense  or  sight  left  to  aid  him, 
and  Big  George,  as  this  keeper  was  called,  did  not 
notice  that  his  dogs  were  smelling  in  a  friendlv  way  at 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  289 

his  prisoner,  but  only  saw  that  he  had  to  do  with  a 
pale-faced  lad  without  shoes,  and  very  untidy  and 
dusty-looking,  who  had  snares  and  a  snared  pheasant 
at  his  feet. 

Before  Bertie  had  even  seen  him  take  a  bit  of  cord 
out  of  his  pocket,  he  had  tied  the  little  Earl's  hands 
behind  him,  picked  up  the  pheasant  and  the  trap, 
and  given  some  directions  to  his  companion.  The 
real  culprit  was  already  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  bur- 
rowing safely  in  the  earth  of  an  old  fox  killed  in 
February, — a  hiding-place  with  which  he  was  very 
familiar. 

Bertie,  meanwhile,  was  quite  silent.  He  was  think- 
ing to  himself,  "If  I  tell  them  another  boy  did  it,  they 
will  go  and  look  for  him,  and  catch  him,  and  put  him 
in  prison ;  and  then  his  mother  and  Susie  will  be  so 
miserable, — more  miserable  than  ever.  I  think  I 
ought  to  keep  quiet.  Jesus  never  said  anything  when 
they  buffeted  him." 

"Ah,  you  little  gallows-bird,  you'll  get  it  this  time!" 
said  the  keeper,  knotting  the  string  tighter  about  his 
wrists,  and  speaking  as  if  he  had  had  the  little  Earl 
very  often  in  such  custody. 

"  You  are  a  very  rude  man,"  said  Bertie,  with  the 
angry  color  in  his  cheeks ;  but  Big  George  heeded  him 
not,  being  engaged  in  swearing  at  one  of  his  dogs, — a 
young  one,  who  was  trotting  after  a  rabbit. 

"  I  know  who  this  youngster  is.  Bob,"  he  said  to  his 
companion  :  "  he's  the  Radley  shaver  over  from  Black- 
gang." 

Bertie  wondered  who  the  Radley  shaver  was  that 
resembled  him. 

V       t  25 


290  ^^^  LITTLE  EARL. 

*'  He  has  the  looks  on  hira,"  said  the  other,  pru- 
dently. 

"  Sir  Henry's  dining  at  Chigwell  to-night,  and  he'll 
have  started  afore  we  get  there,"  continued  Big  George. 
"  Go  you  on  through  spinney  far  as  Edge  Pool,  and 
I'll  take  and  lock  this  here .  Radley  up  till  morning. 
Blast  his  impudence, — a  pheasant !  think  of  the  likes 
of  it !  A  pheasant !  If  't  had  been  a  rabbit,  't  had 
been  bad  enough." 

Then  he  shook  his  little  captive  vigorously. 

Bertie  did  not  say  anything.  He  was  not  in  trepi- 
dation for  himself,  but  he  was  in  an  agony  of  fear  lest 
the  other  boy  should  be  found  in  the  spinney. 

"March  along  afore  me,"  said  Big  George,  with 
much  savageness.  "  And  if  you  tries  to  bolt,  I'll  blow 
your  brains  out  and  nail  you  to  a  barn-door  along  o' 
the  owls." 

The  little  Earl  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  scorn  and 
horror. 

"  How  dare  you  touch  Athene's  bird  ?'* 

"How  dare  I  what,  you  little  saucy  blackguard?" 
thundered  Big  George,  and  fetched  him  a  great  box  on 
the  ears  which  made  Bertie  stagger. 

"You  are  a  very  bad  man,"  he  said,  breathlessly. 
"  You  are  a  very  mean  man.  You  are  big,  and  so  you 
are  cruel:  that  is  very  mean  indeed." 

"  You've  the  gift  of  the  gab,  little  devil  of  a  Rad- 
ley," said  the  keeper,  wrathfully ;  "  but  you'll  pipe 
another  tune  when  you  feel  the  birch  and  pick  oakum." 

Bertie  set  his  teeth  tight  to  keep  his  words  in  :  he 
walked  on  mute. 

"You've  stole  some   little  geraraan's  togs  as  well 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  291 

as  my  pheasant,"  said  Big  George,  surveying  him. 
"  Why  didn't  you  steal  a  pair  of  boots  when  you  was 
about  it  ?" 

Bertie  was  still  mute. 

"  I  will  not  say  anything  to  this  bad  man,"  he 
thought,  "  or  else  he  will  find  out  that  it  was  not  I." 

The  sun  had  set  by  this  time,  leaving  only  a  sil- 
very light  above  the  sea  and  the  downs :  the  pale 
long  twilight  of  an  English  day  had  come  upon  the 
earth. 

Bertie  was  very  white,  and  his  heart  beat  fast,  and 
he  was  growing  very  hungry;  but  he  managed  to  stum- 
ble on,  though  very  painfully,  for  his  courage  would 
not  let  him  repine  before  this  savage  man,  who  was 
mixed  up  in  his  mind  with  Bluebeard,  and  Thor,  and 
Croquemitaine,  and  Richard  III.,  and  Nero,  and  all 
the  ogres  that  he  had  ever  met  with  in  his  reading, 
and  who  seemed  to  grow  larger  and  larger  and  larger 
as  the  sky  and  earth  grew  darker. 

Happily  for  his  shoeless  feet,  the  way  lay  all  over 
grass-lands  and  mossy  paths ;  but  he  limped  so  that 
the  keeper  swore  at  him  many  tima«!,  and  the  little 
Earl  felt  the  desperate  resignation  of  the  martyr. 

At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  keeper's  cottage, 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  preserves, — a  thatched  and 
gabled  little  building,  with  a  light  glimmering  in  its 
lattice  window. 

At  the  sound  of  Big  George's  heavy  tread,  a  woman 
and  some  children  ran  out. 

"  Lord  ha'  mercy  !  George  !"  cried  the  wife.  "What 
scarecrow  have  you  been  and  got?" 

"  A  Radley  boy,"  growled  George, — "  one  of  the 


292  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

cussed  Radley  boys  at  last, — and  a  pheasant  snared 
took  in  bis  very  band  I" 

"  Yon  don't  mean  it !"  cried  bis  wife ;  and  tbe  small 
children  yelled  and  jumped.  "  Wbat'll  be  done  with 
bim,  dad  ?"  cried  tbe  eldest  of  tbem. 

"  I'll  jjut  bim  in  fowl-bouse  to-nigbt,"  said  Big 
George,  "  and  up  be'll  go  afore  Sir  Henry  fust  tbing 
to  morrow.  Clear  off,  young  uns,  and  let  me  run  bim 
in." 

Bertie  looked  up  in  Big  George's  face. 

"  I  bad  nothing  to  do  with  killing  tbe  bird,"  be  said, 
in  a  firm  though  a  faint  voice.  "  You  quite  mistake. 
I  am  Lord  Avillion." 

"  Stop  your  pipe,  or  I'll  choke  yer,"  swore  Big 
George,  enraged  by  what  be  termed  tbe  "  darned 
cheek"  of  a  Eadley  boy ;  and  without  more  ado  be 
laid  hold  of  tbe  little  Earl's  collar  and  lifted  him  into 
tbe  fowl-house,  tbe  door  of  which  was  held  open 
eagerly  by  bis  eldest  girl. 

There  was  a  great  flapping  of  wings,  screeching  of 
hens,  and  piping  of  chicks  at  the  interruption,  where 
all  tbe  inmates  were  gone  to  roost,  and  one  cock  set  up 
bis  usual  salutation  to  tbe  dawn. 

"  That's  better  nor  you'll  sleep  to-morrow  night," 
said  Big  George,  as  be  tumbled  Bertie  on  to  a  truss 
of  straw  that  lay  there,  when  be  went  out  himself, 
slammed  the  door,  and  both  locked  and  barred  it  on 
tbe  outside. 

Bertie  fell  back  on  tbe  straw,  sobbing  bitterly :  bis 
feet  were  cut  and  bleeding,  his  whole  body  ached  like 
one  great  bruise,  and  be  was  sick  and  faint  with  hun- 
ger.    "  If  the  world  be  as  difficult  as  this  to  live  in," 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  293 

he  thought,  "  how  ever  do  some  people  manage  to  live 
almost  to  a  hundred  years  in  it?"  and  to  his  eight-year- 
old  little  soul  the  prospect  of  a  long  life  seemed  so  hor- 
rible that  he  sobbed  again  at  the  very  thought  of  it.  It 
was  quite  dark  in  the  fowl-house ;  the  rustling  and 
fluttering  of  the  poultry  all  around  sounded  mysteri- 
ous and  unearthly ;  the  strong,  unpleasant  smell  made 
him  faint,  and  the  pain  in  his  feet  grew  greater  every 
moment.  He  did  not  scream  or  go  into  convulsions  ; 
he  was  a  brave  little  man,  and  proud ;  but  he  felt  as 
if  the  long,  lonely  night  there  would  kill  him. 

Half  an  hour,  perhaps,  had  gone  by  when  a  woman's 
voice  at  the  little  square  window  said,  softly,  "  Here 
is  bread  and  water  for  you,  poor  boy;  and  I've  put 
some  milk  and  cheese,  too,  only  my  man  mustn't  know 
it." 

Bertie  with  great  effort  raised  himself,  and  took  what 
was  pushed  through  the  tiny  window ;  a  mug  of  milk 
being  lowered  to  him  last  by  a  large  red  fat  hand, 
on  which  the  light  of  a  candle  held  without  was  glow- 
ing. 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  the  little  Earl,  feebly. 
"  But,  madam,  I  did  not  kill  that  bird,  and  indeed  I 
am  Lord  Avillion." 

The  good  woman  went  within  to  her  lord,  and  said 
timidly  to  him,  "  George,  are  you  sartin  sure  that  there's 
a  Radley  boy?  He  do  look  and  speak  like  a  little 
gem  man,  and  he  do  say  as  how  he  is  one." 

Big  George  called  her  bad  names. 

"  A  barefoot  gem  man  !"  he  said,  with  a  sneer.  "  You 
thunderin'  fool !  it's  weazened-faced  Vic  Radley,  as 
have  been  in  our  woods  a  hundred  times  if  wirnce, 
25* 


294  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

though  never  could  I  slap  eyes  on  him  quick  enougti 
to  pin  him." 

The  good  housewife  took  up  her  stocking-meudiug 
and  said  no  more.  Big  George's  arguments  were 
sometimes  enforced  with  the  fist,  and  even  with  tho 
pewter  pot  or  the  poker. 

Meanwhile,  the  little  Earl  in  the  hen-house  was  so 
hungry  that  he  drank  the  milk  and  ate  the  bread  and 
cheese.  Both  were  harder  and  rougher  things  thau 
any  he  had  ever  tasted ;  but  he  had  now  that  hunger 
which  had  made  the  boy  on  the  stile  relish  the  turnip, 
and,  besides,  another  incident  had  occurred  to  give  him 
relish  for  the  food. 

At  the  moment  when  he  had  sat  down  to  drink  the 
milk,  there  had  tumbled  out  from  behind  the  straw  a 
round  black-and-white  object,  unsteady  on  its  legs,  and 
having  a  very  broad  nose  and  a  very  woolly  coat.  The 
moon  had  risen  by  this  time,  and  was  shining  in  through 
the  little  square  window,  and  by  its  beams  Bertie  could 
see  this  thing  was  a  puppy, — a  Newfoundland  puppy 
some  four  months  old.  He  welcomed  it  with  as  much 
rapture  as  ever  Robert  Bruce  did  the  spider.  It  had 
evidently  been  awakened  from  its  sleep  by  the  smell  of 
the  food.  It  was  a  pleasant,  companionable,  warm  and 
kindly  creature ;  it  knocked  the  bread  out  of  his  hand, 
and  thrust  its  square  mouth  into  his  milk,  but  he  shared 
it  willingly,  and  had  a  hearty  cry  over  it  that  did  him 
good. 

He  did  not  feel  all  alone,  now  that  this  blundering, 
toppling,  shapeless,  amiable  baby-dog  had  found  its 
way  to  him.  He  caressed  it  in  his  arms  and  kissed  it 
a  great  many  times,  and  it  responded  much  more  grate- 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  295 

fully  than  the  human  baby  had  done  in  Jim  Bracken's 
cottage,  and  finally,  despite  his  bleeding  feet  and  his 
tired  limbs,  he  fell  asleep  with  his  face  against  the  pup's 
woolly  body. 

When  he  awoke,  he  could  not  remember  what  had 
happened.  He  called  for  Deborah,  but  no  Deborah 
was  there.  The  moon,  now  full,  was  shining  still 
through  the  queer  little  dusky  place ;  the  figures  of  the 
fowls,  rolled  up  in  balls  of  feathers  and  stuck  upon 
one  leg,  were  all  that  met  his  straining  eyes.  He  pulled 
the  puppy  closer  and  closer  to  him :  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  felt  really  frightened. 

"  I  never  touched  the  pheasant,"  he  cried,  as  loud  as 
he  could.  "  I  am  Lord  Avillion !  You  have  no  right 
to  keep  me  here.  Let  me  out!  let  me  out!  let  me 
out!" 

The  fowls  woke  up,  and  then  cried  and  cackled  and 
crowed,  and  the  poor  pup  whined  and  yelped  dolefully, 
but  he  got  no  other  answer.  Everybody  in  Big  George's 
cottage  was  asleep,  except  Big  George  himself,  who, 
with  his  revolver,  his  fowling-piece,  and  a  couple  of 
bull-dogs,  was  gone  out  again  into  the  woods. 

At  home,  Bertie  in  his  pretty  bed,  that  had  belonged 
to  the  little  Roi  de  Rome,  had  always  had  a  soft  light 
burning  in  a  porcelain  shade,  and  his  nurse  within  easy 
call,  and  Ralph  on  the  mat  by  the  door.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  dark  before,  and  he  could  hear 
unseen  things  moving  and  rustling  in  the  straw,  and 
he  felt  afraid  of  the  white  moonbeams  shifting  hither 
and  thither  and  shining  on  the  shape  of  the  big  Brahma 
cock  till  the  great  bird  looked  like  a  vulture.  Once  a 
rat  ran  swiftly  across,  and  then  the  fowls  shrieked,  and 


296  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

Bertie  could  not  help  screaming  with  them ;  but  in  a 
minute  or  two  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,  for  he  thought, 
"  A  rat  is  God's  creature  as  much  as  I  am ;  and,  as  I 
have  not  done  anything  wrong,  I  do  not  think  they 
will  be  allowed  to  hurt  me." 

Nevertheless,  the  night  was  very  terrible.  "Without 
the  presence  of  the  puppy,  no  doubt,  the  little  Earl 
would  have  frightened  himself  into  convulsions  and 
delirium ;  but  the  pup  was  so  comforting  to  him,  so 
natural,  so  positively  a  thing  real  and  in  no  wise  of 
the  outer  world,  that  Bertie  kept  down,  though  with 
many  a  sob,  the  panics  of  unreasoning  terror  which 
assailed  him  as  the  moon  sailed  away  past  the  square 
loop-hole,  and  a  great  darkness  seemed  to  wrap  him  up 
in  it  as  though  some  giant  were  stifling  him  in  a  magic 
cloak. 

The  pup  had  not  long  been  taken  from  its  mother, 
and  had  been  teased  all  day  by  the  keeper's  children, 
and  was  frightened,  and  whimpered  a  good  deal,  and 
cuddled  itself  close  to  the  little  Earl,  who  hugged  it 
and  kissed  it  in  paroxysms  of  loneliness  and  longing 
for  comfort. 

With  these  long,  horrible  black  hours,  all  sorts  of 
notions  and  terrors  assailed  him  ',  all  he  had  ever  read 
of  dungeons,  of  enchanted  castles,  of  entrapped  princes, 
of  Prince  Arthur  and  the  Duke  of  Rothsay,  of  the 
prisoner  of  Chillon  and  the  Iron  Mask,  of  every  kind 
of  hero,  martyr,  and  wizard-bewitched  captive,  crowded 
into  his  mind  with  horrifying  clearness,  thronging  on 
him  with  a  host  of  fearful  images  and  memories. 

But  this  was  only  in  his  weaker  moments.  When 
he  clasped  the  puppy  and  felt  its  warm  wet  tongue 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  297 

lick  his  hair,  he  gathered  up  his  courage  :  after  all,  he 
thought,  Big  George  was  certainly  only  a  keeper, — not 
an  ogre,  or  an  astrologer,  or  a  tyrant  of  Athens  or  of 
Rome. 

So  he  fell  off  again,  after  a  long  and  dreadful  waking- 
time,  into  a  fitful  slumber,  in  which  his  feet  ached  and 
his  nerves  jumped,  and  the  frightful  visions  assailed 
him  just  as  much  as  when  he  was  awake ;  and  how 
that  ghastly  night  passed  by  him,  he  never  knew  very 
well. 

When  he  again  opened  his  eyes  there  was  a  dim  gray 
light  in  the  fowl-house,  and  sharp  in  his  ear  was  ring- 
ing the  good-morrow  of  the  Brahma  chanticleer. 

It  was  daybreak. 

A  round  red  face  looked  in  at  the  square  hole,  and 
the  voice  of  the  keeper's  wife  said,  "Little  gemman, 
Big  George  will  be  arter  ye  come  eight  o'clock,  and 
't  '11  go  hard  wi'  yer.  Say  now,  yer  didn't  snare  the 
bird?" 

"  No,"  said  Bertie,  languidly,  lying  full  length  on 
the  straw ;  he  felt  shivery  and  chilly,  and  very  stiff 
and  very  miserable  in  all  ways. 

"  But  yer  know  who  did !"  persisted  the  woman. 
"  Now,  jist  you  tell  me,  and  I'll  make  it  all  square 
with  George,  and  he'll  let  you  out,  and  we'll  gie  ye 
porridge,  and  we'll  take  ye  home  on  the  donkey." 

The  little  Earl  was  silent. 

"  Now,  drat  ye  for  a  obstinate !  I  can't  abide  a 
obstinate,"  said  the  woman,  angrily.  "  Who  did  snare 
the  bird  ?  jist  say  that ;  't  is  all,  and  mighty  little." 

"  I  will  not  say  that,"  said  Bertie ;  and  the  woman 
slammed  a  wooden  door  that  there  was  to  the  loop- 


298  ^^^  LITTLE   EARL. 

hole,  and  told  him  he  was  a  mule  and  a  pig,  and  that 
she  was  not  going  to  waste  any  more  words  about  hira  ; 
she  should  let  the  birds  out  by  the  bars.  What  she 
called  the  bars,  which  were  two  movable  lengths  of 
wood  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  walls,  did  in  point 
of  fact  soon  slip  aside,  and  the  fowls  all  cackled  and 
strutted  and  fluttered  after  their  different  manners,  and 
bustled  through  the  opening  towards  the  daylight  and 
the  scattered  corn,  the  Brahma  cock  having  much  ado 
to  squeeze  his  plumage  where  his  wives  had  passed. 

"  The  puppy's  hungry,"  said  Bertie,  timidly. 

"  Drat  the  puppy !"  said  the  woman  outside ;  and 
no  more  compassion  was  wrung  out  of  her.  The  little 
Earl  felt  very  languid,  light-headed,  and  strange ;  he 
was  faint,  and  a  little  feverish. 

"  Oh,  dear,  pup !  what  a  night !"  he  murmured,  with 
a  burst  of  sobbing. 

Yet  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  purchase  his  liberty 
by  giving  up  little  guilty  Dan. 

Some  more  hours  rolled  on, — slow,  empty,  desolate, 
— filled  with  the  whine  of  the  pup  for  its  mother,  and 
the  chirping  of  unseen  martins  going  in  and  out  of  the 
roof  above-head. 

"  I  suppose  they  mean  to  starve  me  to  death," 
thought  Bertie,  his  thoughts  clinging  to  the  Duke  of 
Rothsay's  story. 

He  heard  the  tread  of  Big  George  on  the  ground 
outside,  and  his  deep  voice  cursing  and  swearing,  and 
the  children  running  to  and  fro,  and  the  hens  cackling. 
Then  the  little  Earl  remembered  that  he  was  born  of 
brave  men,  and  must  not  be  unworthy  of  them ;  and 
he  rose,  though  unsteadily,  and  tried  to  pull  his  dis- 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  299 

ordered  dress  together,  and  tried,  too,  not  to  look 
afraid. 

He  recalled  Casablanca  on  the  burning  ship :  Casa- 
blanca had  not  been  so  very  much  older  than  he. 

The  door  was  thrust  open  violently,  and  that  big 
grim  black  man  looked  in.  "  Come,  varmint !"  he 
cried  out ;  "  come  out  and  get  your  merits :  birch  and 
bread-and- water  and  Scripture-readin'  for  a  good  month, 
I'll  go  bail ;  and  't  'ud  be  a  year  if  I  wur  the  beak." 

Then  Bertie,  on  his  little  shaky  shivering  limbs, 
walked  quite  haughtily  towards  him  and  the  open  air, 
the  puppy  waddling  after  him.  "  You  should  not  be 
so  very  rough  and  rude,"  he  said :  "  I  will  go  with  you. 
But  the  puppy  wants  some  milk." 

Big  George's  only  answer  was  to  clutch  wildly  at 
Bertie's  clothes  and  hurl  him  anyhow,  head  first,  into 
a  little  pony-cart  that  stood  ready.  "  Such  tarnation 
cheek  I  never  seed,"  he  swore  ;  "  but  all  them  Eadley 
imps  are  as  like  one  to  f  other  as  so  many  ribston- 
pippins, — all  the  gift  o'  the  gab  and  tallow-faces !" 

Bertie,  lying  very  sick  and  dizzy  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cart,  managed  to  find  breath  to  call  out  to  the 
woman  on  the  door-step,  "  Please  do  give  the  puppy 
something ;  it  has  been  so  hungry  all  night." 

"  That's  no  Eadley  boy,"  said  the  keeper's  wife  to 
her  eldest  girl  as  the  cart  drove  away.  "  Only  a  little 
gemman  'ud  ha'  thought  of  the  pup.  Strikes  me,  lass, 
your  daddy's  put  a  rod  in  pickle  for  hisself  along  o' 
his  tantrums  and  tivies." 

It  was  but  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  keeper's  cot- 
tage to  the  mansion  of  the  Sir  Henry  who  was  owner 
of  these  lands ;  and  the  pony  spun  along  at  a  swing 


300  '^^E  LITTLE  EARL. 

trot,  and  Big  George,  smoking  and  rattling  along, 
never  deigned  to  look  at  his  prisoner. 

"Another  poachin'  boy,  Mr.  Mason?"  said  the  woman 
who  opened  the  lodge  gates;  and  Big  George  answered, 
heartily, — 

"Ay,  ay,  a  Eadley  imp  caught  at  last.  Got  the  bird 
on  him,  and  the  gin  too.     What  d'ye  call  that?" 

"  I  call  it  like  your  vigilance,  Mr.  Mason,"  said  the 
lodge-keeper.     "  But,  lawks  !  he  do  look  a  mite  !" 

Big  George  spun  on  up  the  avenue  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  knew  his  own  important  place  in  the  world, 
and  the  little  cart  was  soon  pulled  up  at  the  steps  of  a 
stately  Italian-like  building. 

"  See  Sir  Henry  to  wunce :  poachin'  case,"  said  Big 
George  to  the  footman  lounging  about  the  doorway. 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Mason.  Sir  Henry  said  as  you  waff 
to  go  to  him  directly." 

"Step  this  way,"  said  one  of  the  men;  and  Big 
George  proceeded  to  haul  Bertie  out  of  the  cart  as  un- 
ceremoniously as  he  had  thrown  him  in ;  but  the  little 
Earl,  although  his  head  spun  and  his  shoeless  feet 
ached,  managed  to  get  down  himself,  and  staggered 
across  the  hall. 

"A  Badley  boy!"  said  Big  George,  displaying  him 
with  much  pride.  "  All  the  spring  and  all  the  winter 
I've  been  after  that  weazen-faced  varmint,  and  now 
['ve  got  him." 

"Sir  Henry  waits,"  said  a  functionary;  and  Big 
George  marched  into  a  handsome  library,  dragging 
his  captive  behind  him,  towards  the  central  writing- 
table,  at  which  a  good-looking  elderly  gentleman  was 
sitting. 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  301 

Arrived  before  his  master,  the  demeanor  of  Big 
George  underwent  a  remarkable  change;  he  cringed, 
and  he  pulled  his  lock  of  hair,  and  he  scraped  about 
with  his  leg  in  the  humblest  manner  possible,  and 
proceeded  to  lay  the  dead  pheasant  and  the  trap  and 
gear  upon  the  table. 

"  Took  him  in  the  ac',  Sir  Henry,"  he  said,  with 
triumph  piercing  through  deference.  "  I  been  after 
him  ages ;  he's  a  Radley  boy,  the  little  gallows-bird ; 
he's  been  snarin'  and  dodgin'  and  stealin'  all  the  winter 
long,  and  here  we've  got  him." 

"  He  is  very  small, — quite  a  child,"  said  Sir  Henry, 
doubtingly,  trying  to  see  the  culprit. 

"He's  stunted  in  his  growth  along  o'  wickedness, 
sir,"  said  Big  George,  very  positively ;  "  but  he's  old 
in  wice ;  that's  what  he  is,  sir, — old  in  wice." 

At  that  moment  Bertie  managed  to  get  in  front  of 
him,  and  lifted  his  little  faint  voice. 

"  He  has  made  a  mistake,"  he  said,  feebly :  "  I  never 
killed  your  birds  at  all,  and  I  am  Lord  Avillion." 

"Good  heavens  I  you  thundering  idiot!"  shouted 
Sir  Henry,  springing  to  his  feet.  "  This  is  the  little 
Earl  they  are  looking  for  all  over  the  island,  and  all 
over  the  country !  My  dear  little  fellow,  how  can  I 
ever " 

His  apologies  were  cut  short  by  Bertie  dropping 
down  in  a  dead  faint  at  his  feet,  so  weak  was  he  from 
cold,  and  hunger,  and  exhaustion,  and  unwonted  ex- 
posure. 

It  was  not  very  long,  however,  before  all  the  alarmed 
household,  pouring  in  at  the  furious  ringing  of  their 
master's  bell,  had  revived  the  little  Earl,  and  brought 


302  THE  LITTLE  EARL. 

him  to  his  senses  none  the  worse  for  the  momentary 
eclipse  of  them. 

"Please  do  not  be  angry  with  your  man,"  murmured 
Bertie,  as  he  lay  on  one  of  the  wide  leathern  couches. 
"  He  meant  to  do  his  duty ;  and  please  —will  you  let 
me  buy  the  puppy  ?" 

Of  course  Sir  Henry  would  not  allow  the  little  Earl 
to  wander  any  farther  afield,  and  of  course  a  horseman 
was  sent  over  in  hot  haste  to  apprise  his  people,  misled 
by  the  boat-lad,  who,  frightened  at  his  own  share  in 
the  little  gentleman's  escape,  had  sworn  till  he  was 
hoarse  that  he  had  seen  Lord  Avillion  take  a  boat  for 
Eye. 

So  Bertie's  liberty  was  nipped  in  the  bud,  and  very 
sorrowfully  and  wistfully  he  strayed  out  on  to  the  rose- 
terrace  of  Sir  Henry's  house,  awaiting  the  coming  of 
his  friends.  The  puppy  had  been  fetched,  and  was 
tumbling  and  waddling  solemnly  beside  him ;  yet  he 
was  very  sad  at  heart. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  child  ?"  said  Sir 
Henry,  who  was  a  gentle  and  learned  man. 

Bertie's  mouth  quivered. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  hesitatingly, — "  I  see  I  am  nothing. 
It  is  the  title  they  give  me,  and  the  money  I  have  got, 
that  make  the  people  so  good  to  me.  When  I  am  only 
me,  you  see  how  it  is." 

And  the  tears  rolled  down  his  face,  which  he  had 
heard  called  "wizen"  and  "puny"  and  likened  to 
tallow. 

"My  dear  little  fellow,"  said  his  grown-up  com- 
panion, tenderly,  "  there  comes  a  day  when  even  kings 
are  stripped  of  all  their  pomp,  and  lie  naked  and  stark; 


THE  LITTLE  EARL.  303 

it  is  then  that  which  they  have  done,  not  that  wliieh 
they  have  been,  that  will  find  them  grace  and  let  them 
rise  again." 

"But  I  am  nothing!"  said  Bertie,  piteously.  "You 
see,  when  the  people  do  not  know  who  I  am,  they 
think  me  nothing  at  all," 

"  I  don't  fancy  Peggy  and  Dan  will  think  so  when 
we  tell  them  everything,"  said  the  host.  "  We  are  all 
of  us  nothing  in  ourselves,  my  child ;  only,  here  and 
there  we  pluck  a  bit  of  lavender, — that  is,  we  do  some 
good  thing  or  say  some  kind  word, — and  then  we  get 
a  sweet  savor  from  it.  You  will  gather  a  great  deal 
of  lavender  in  your  life,  or  I  am  mistaken." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Bertie,  who  understood. 

So,  off  the  downs  that  day,  and  in  the  pleasant  haw- 
thorn woods  of  the  friendly  little  Isle,  he  plucked  two 
heads  of  lavender, — humility  and  sympathy.  Believe 
me,  they  are  worth  as  much  as  was  the  raoly  of  Ulysses. 


THE    END. 


v^^/v^y    /  \J 


